


Project Ruby

by lyriumlovesong



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alien Technology, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Cullen Rutherford, Angst, Aveline is Sneaky and Helpful, Bad Puns, Blood, Blood and Violence, Cullen Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford has PTSD - Post-Tramatic Stress Disorder, Cullen's Got Pipes, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, David Bowie is Dalish, Doctor/Patient, Dorian is a Good Friend, Elvhen Lore, Elvhen Pantheon, Elvhenan Culture and Customs, Emergency room, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fade Rifts, Fluff, Government Conspiracy, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mabari, Medical Experimentation, Meeting the Parents, Military, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Modern Era, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Modern Thedas, Nurses, Panic Attacks, Politics, Singing, Slow Burn, Smut, Templars (Dragon Age), Thedas, Thedosian History, Trauma, Unethical Experimentation, Violence, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 70,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <img/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>When Dr. Freya Lavellan treats a patient following a vehicle collision, she quickly realizes he's a member of the Templars, an elite Marine Corps division.<p>Shrouded in mystery, the Templar division employs only the finest Marines. Their rumored goal is to create the ultimate Super Soldier, and conspiracies abound as to just how far they're willing to go to achieve their end. </p><p>Cullen Rutherford may just be the key to blowing the lid off the whole operation, but can she help keep him safe long enough for them to figure out what Project Ruby is, or how far up the chain of command the atrocities go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

> The sunlight has a sister,  
> and she's beating down your door,  
> and you need to breathe  
> like you did never breathe before.  
> You're going home,  
> you're rag and bone.
> 
> And you're singing from the shallows,  
> and you're in up to your knees.  
> Can't see the surface,  
> can't remember how to breathe.  
> So you're going home,  
> you're on your own.
> 
> You tried to stand up tall  
> so you would never have to kneel,  
> but now you've got a wound  
> that you don't ever want to heal.
> 
> \--Alexander Wolfe, "Trick of the Light"

The blare of ambulance sirens cut through the air over the sound of the running faucet. As she watched red-tinged water swirl the drain for the umpteenth time that night, Freya Lavellan heaved a sigh. She muttered to herself as she shook her hands and dried them on a paper towel.

“Become an ER doctor, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.”

She slammed her hand against the disinfectant dispenser on the wall and turned away from the scrub sink, spreading the gel over her hands and between her fingers.

The ambulance driver came through the automatic doors, looking mercifully calm.

She walked toward him, holding her hand out for the incident report.

“Vehicle collision, doc” he told her. “No other cars involved, so this should be the only injury from the scene. Male, human. Thirties. Pretty good laceration on his upper lip and some heavy bruising on his head. High temp, vitals are kinda whack. He’s not critical, but he needs attention pretty fast.”

“Thanks, Mal,” she told him, looking over the chart. The other two EMTs were busy prepping the stretcher behind the ambulance. Glancing back up from the clipboard, she gestured toward the exam rooms.

“Put him in six.”

She walked back to the nurse's station and grabbed her laptop, opening the charting software the hospital used.

The emergency room had been slammed that night. All her nurses and the other two doctors were busy, so she began filling in the patient’s information herself. It was fortunate for this guy that it was only a car wreck. She’d only just finished digging a bullet out of another man’s shoulder. Looking down, she saw that there was a small splatter of blood on the leg of her turquoise scrubs.

 _Thank the gods for Tide pens,_ she thought to herself.

She heard the stretcher going past the desk behind her, heading toward the exam room with a large number 6 on the glass door. She finished entering the EMTs’ notes into her system and got up, slinging her stethoscope around her neck again and bringing the laptop with her.

By the time she got to the exam room, the patient had been helped into the bed. His shirt was covered in blood, and she saw a pair of red-spattered dog tags hanging from his neck. Sweat drenched his shirt, and his blonde hair looked damp with it, as well. More blood covered his chin, spilling from a deep gash on his upper lip. A colorful bruise on his temple told her he’d probably knocked his head pretty good. She also noticed that, underneath all the carnage, he was incredibly attractive.

She thanked the EMT team as they took their leave, wheeling the bright yellow stretcher between them.

“Evening, Mr. Rutherford,” she said with a small smile, taking a seat on wheeled stool next to the bed. “Looks like you’ve had better nights.”

“That’s an understatement,” he told her, shifting slightly with a wince.

She took a fingertip probe from the machine next to the bed. It was obviously not the first time he’d had one used on him, because he stuck out his pointer finger for her to clamp it on.

“I’m Dr. Lavellan. Normally one of my nurses would handle this part, but we’re short staffed and up to our eyeballs in idiots who can’t control their tempers tonight.”

“Sounds like a typical Kirkwall Saturday," he replied.

She smirked, reading the machine’s data.

“Well,” she told him as she fit a large blood pressure cuff around his muscular arm, “your oxygen saturation is good. But that’s about all that is. You’re tachycardic. And it’s been awhile since I had to take board exams, but I seem to recall 105.1 being outside normal limits for human temperatures.”

“Does it vary by race?” he asked, realizing that she’d specified his in her slightly sarcastic remark.

“Mmhmm,” she replied. “Dwarves are a bit lower than that, elves are usually about the same as humans, and Qunari run hot.”

The blood pressure cuff beeped and deflated.

“Eighty over fifty-five,” she said. She was typing his vitals into his electronic chart, and all the fields that were outside their proper ranges had been highlighted in red by the program. There were a lot of them.

“Is that normal?”

“No,” she said, pursing her lips. “It’s low. Which tells me your heart is working hard because your blood volume isn’t adequate. I’m assuming based on your rather damp condition that you’ve been sweating?”

He nodded.

“Throwing up?”

“No, although I’ve certainly felt like it.”

"Any major medical conditions I should know about?" He shook his head, and Freya frowned. “Well, Mr. Rutherford--”

“Please,” he interjected, “Just Cullen is fine.”

“Okay, if that's what you prefer. Cullen, we need to get an IV set on you, and I’m going to give you some acetaminophen for that fever. Then we’ll get a good look at that lip.” She took a penlight out of her scrub pocket. “I should check and make sure you didn’t bang your head too badly.

Leaning over him, Freya aimed the beam at his eyes. They shone brightly amber under the light. His pupils didn’t contract. She clicked it off again and took her stethoscope off her neck and put the earpieces in. She brushed his dog tags to one side, reading them as she listened to his heart and lungs.

 

RUTHERFORD  
CULLEN  S    H/AB+  
471-73-4990  
USMC - TEMPLAR  
ANDRASTIAN

 

She brought her eyes back up to Cullen’s.

“Templar division, eh?” she asked quietly. He shifted his gaze away. “Well. You’re dehydrated and nauseated. You’ve spiked a high fever. I’d be willing to bet you were sporting a walloping headache even before that accident, since your eyes are letting in too much light. Those are all symptoms of lyrium withdrawal, if memory serves.”

He looked back up at her, almost defiantly.

“And what if they _are?”_

“We both know it’s illegal for you to operate a vehicle when you’re not on lyrium.”

Cullen let out a mirthless snort of laughter.

“Does it never strike anyone as ironic that civilians can’t drive a car if they _are_ under the influence, but Templars can’t drive a car if they _aren’t?”_

“There are a lot of things about the Templar division that I find completely and utterly ridiculous,” she said, standing up and rolling up the sleeves of her undershirt a bit. Cullen could see a colorful tattoo peeking out from under the white fabric on one arm. She was getting out an IV bag full of fluids and a set of sterile tubing. “In fact, I think the whole program is probably a gigantic civil rights clusterfuck. But that doesn’t make what you did any more legal.”

“You going to call the cops on me?” he asked her.

“No, I’m not. But you were in a motor vehicle collision. They’re already here, somewhere.”

“So why haven’t they come in to question me?”

“Because,” said Freya, spiking the bag with the sharp end of the tubing and hanging it on a pole, then threading it through a pump as she talked, “you have the right to medical treatment, which means that the priority is to get you stabilized before anyone comes in here who isn’t in scrubs. They don’t get to have a turn with you until I give them the all-clear.”

She was opening drawers now, taking out catheter supplies and disinfectant wipes.

“I’m going to set this IV now so we can get your body functioning better.”

He watched as she snapped on a pair of bright blue gloves and tied a thin strip of stretchy rubber around his upper arm.

“Make a fist,” she told him. Not that it was necessary. The veins on his well-toned arms stuck out like thin ropes threaded beneath his skin.

“You set IVs often?” he asked.

“Occasionally,” she replied. She cocked her head and gave him a confused look, tapping her finger against his bulging blood vessel. “It goes in _here,_ right?”

He smirked. She wasn’t like any of the doctors in the military, that was for sure. It was refreshing to have someone talking to him like a normal person, someone without a stick so far up their ass that they spit splinters. And she wasn’t hard on the eyes, either, he thought to himself. A draft in the room chilled his skin where she was wiping him with an alcohol pad in growing circles.

She placed the stylet easily and slid the catheter in, taping it in place and attaching the primed line. Setting the pump controls, she glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. The pump whirred into action, and a steady drip from the bag into the line started flowing. Cullen could taste the fluid as it slid coolly through his veins, a vague salt flavor at the back of his throat.

“I’ll have to go get you some acetominophen for that fever, and I’m going to grab suture while I’m out there. That lip’s going to need stitches.”

She brushed a loose wave of red hair out of her eyes with her forearm as she peeled her gloves off. She entered the information about the catheter placement into her computer, then stood to leave.

“Be back in a minute.”

Cullen watched her open the sliding glass door of the exam room and step out into the main area of the ER, thick braid bouncing a little between her shoulders as she walked briskly away.

Outside, Freya headed for their suture supply. Someone called her name loudly, and she turned, recognizing the familiar voice.

Dorian Pavus, her charge nurse, was walking toward her, wiping his brow.

“Hey, what was the ambulance about?” he asked. “Tell me it wasn’t _another_ gunshot.”

“No,” Freya said, shaking her head. “Car accident.”

“Thank the Maker. I’m about tired of these assholes trying to kill each other off every night.”

“Do me a favor, will you Dori?” she asked, opening the cabinet where they kept their suture material.

“Whatever you need, doc.”

“Can you get me 650 milligrams of Tylenol? It’s for room six. Just have him take it and tell him I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Sure thing,” he said, turning.

“I appreciate you!” she called after him.

Nearly three years on this hellish shift together, and not once had she ever seen Dorian miss a day. She could still remember their first night working together, her first shift on her own in her last year of residency and his first day on the job. They were both nervous wrecks. Now, they were both confident and capable. And thoroughly sick of Kirkwall Memorial’s bureaucratic bullshit, but that was the story at any hospital.

She returned to the exam room with suture material and a bottle of lidocaine. Dorian was still in the room, chatting pleasantly with the patient and leaning back against the counter.

“Meds done?” she asked, and Dorian nodded.

“Want me to hang out and help?”

Freya considered this. She pursed her lips, weighing the options. She didn’t want to implicate Dorian in anything, but all the same, this patient’s case was tugging at something in her core.

“Let me talk to you for a sec,” she told him, nodding toward the hallway. They walked out together, and she slid the door shut.

“What’s up, Freya?” he asked her. “That’s a helluva look on your face.”

“Mr. Rutherford is a Templar,” she said under her breath. “And he’s off his lyrium.”

“Oh, damn,” said Dorian. “And he was _driving...”_

“Exactly. Now, I’m charting his vitals and symptoms accurately. But I’m not typing the word ‘lyrium’ into that report, and I’m sure as shit not ordering a blood test.”

He let out a long breath through his nostrils.

“Wow,” he said. “I know how you feel about the Templar program, but... you could lose your job over this.”

“I’m willing to play stupid and pretend I didn’t connect the dots,” she said, shrugging. “But I don’t want you to put yourself on the line here. I just… I dunno. Something about this guy tells me he doesn’t deserve whatever the Marine Corps has in store for him when they cotton on to what’s happened here.”

Dorian nodded.

“I appreciate you looking out. But if you’re _that_ certain about this… I’d like to help.”

“You’re positive, Dori?”

He nodded again.

She took a deep breath. Knowingly withholding this kind of information was illegal, and with a division as controversial and dangerous as the Templars to deal with, she didn’t like to think about the possible consequences. But she’d also taken an oath, and she was doing what she felt she was obligated to in order to fulfil that promise.

“Well, I’m glad your boyfriend is a fucking lawyer,” she said to Dorian. She pulled the door back open and walked back in.

“Dorian’s going to start cleaning up your lip and I’m going to get this suture prepped,” she said. Dorian slid past her and began getting out supplies. Freya washed her hands thoroughly, then opened a package of sterile gloves and slid them on.

“Our suture supply is low right now, and we didn’t have any 5-0,” she told Dorian. “So I had to settle for 6-0.”

Cullen looked from one to the other.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“6-0 is a little thinner than 5-0, so the sutures will be a little more fragile than I’d like on something that moves a lot, like your lip,” she explained. “So, you know… try not to get punched in the face in the next two weeks.”

Dorian smirked, wiping the now-clean skin around the large gash with a swab covered in iodine. Then he opened the syringe and handed it off to Freya, holding the bottle of lidocaine so she could fill it sterilely. He stepped back once she’d drawn enough out and walked cautiously past her, careful not to bump her hands.

“You’re lucky, Mr. Rutherford,” he told him as she injected the area around the cut with the clear fluid, “This is deep, but it’s not quite all the way through. You’ll have quite the dashing scar, though.”

He opened an autoclaved pair of needle drivers as she worked, and when she was done, she carefully took them out of their paper package. Dorian then peeled the suture pack open, and Freya grasped it with her gloved hand. Sitting down in front of Cullen, she gently touched the cut with the curved edge of the needle.

“You feel that?” she asked. He shook his head. His whole upper lip was numb. “Good. This is going to feel weird.”

She was not wrong. He couldn’t feel the needle going in and out, but he could feel the tension as she looped the suture across the gash, pulling it closed. After about ten minutes of stitching, she had finished. Knotting the end of the thread, she snipped it with the scissor at the joint of the needle drivers and leaned back.

“There. All done.”

No sooner had the words left her lips than the sliding glass door banged open behind her, making all three of them jump. Four men wearing fatigues barged into the room.

“Excuse me,” said Freya, jumping off her stool and throwing her instrument on the counter. “This is a patient’s room, and you’re violating about a dozen--”

“Restrain the elf,” said the man at the front.

She could never keep military insignia straight, but he had several colorful bars on his lapel and the air of someone in a position of authority. Buzzed greying hair peeked out from beneath his cap. One of the other men grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging cruelly into her and practically lifting her small frame off the ground. Dorian had slipped out, and she could hear his footfalls as he ran off, she assumed, to call hospital security.

“That’s Doctor Elf to you,” she retorted as the man in charge approached Cullen.

“Quiet!” hissed her captor into her pointed ear.

“First Sergeant Rutherford,” said the grey-haired man. “We’ve been looking for you for weeks. Thought you could just slip away and blend in, did you?”

“Colonel Samson,” Cullen said, glaring at him.

The Colonel reached out and viciously flicked Cullen’s IV site.

“What are they pumping into you?” He turned to Freya. “Doctor Rabbit?”

Cullen visibly bristled at the slur. Freya just fixed him with an icy stare.

“Lactated Ringer’s solution. Electrolytes, like IV Gatorade. And if you touch my patient again--”

“And why would Sergeant Rutherford need that?” he cut in.

“Dehydration,” she replied curtly.

The Colonel turned to Cullen, smirking. “Dehydration,” he repeated. “From?”

“I guess I didn’t get my eight glasses of water today,” he responded, shrugging.

Colonel Samson frowned.

“You know what happens to Templars who don’t follow orders,” he said, “don’t you?”

“We lose our allowance?”

Samson’s arm shot out, and Freya bucked against her captor's grip, briefly afraid he was going to hit her patient. But instead, he grabbed the dog tags around Cullen’s neck, yanking them hard and snapping the ball chain they hung on.

“Consider this your dishonorable discharge, Rutherford,” he said, tossing the dog tags onto the floor. “Expect a court date in your near future. I’d look into getting a very capable lawyer, unless you like the idea of living in a cold, lonely prison cell for the rest of your good years.”

The man gripping Freya’s arms released her, and the four Marines turned and walked out of the room. Dorian returned as they exited, panting. He watched them go, his eyes wide.

“Security wouldn’t touch it!” he exclaimed once they were out of earshot, walking in and closing the door, then drawing the privacy curtain. “Said those men had clearance from a higher authority than the hospital. What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

Freya was at Cullen's side in an instant, examining the IV to make sure it hadn’t blown. “You were AWOL?” she asked him, concern etched on her features.

Cullen nodded. 

“For good reason. It’s a long story. And I’m sorry I dragged you into this, doctor.”  
  
“Me?” she asked. “What… what does that mean? Dragged me into _what,_ precisely?”

“AWOL and off lyrium?” Cullen replied, a sardonic smile on his face. “You heard him. I’ll be court-martialed. And you have all the evidence of my withdrawal in your computer. You’ll be called to testify. Maker, I’m so sorry. Forgive me for doing this to you.”

The IV pump beeped, signaling that his fluid bolus had ended.

“Dorian, hook up another bag, will you? Calculate a maintenance rate. 220 pounds ought to be close.”

“I’m 235 as of three weeks ago, actually,” Cullen told her.

“There you go then,” she replied. “235 pounds. Listen, Mr. Rutherford, do you have anyone who can pick you up? A safe place to stay? After another half a bag of fluids or so, you should be okay, but I don’t just want to turn you out on your own. Not after that.”

“I have a place, but no. Nobody close by to get me there.”

Freya looked at Dorian, who was punching numbers into a pocket calculator. “What do you think?” she asked him. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You know Bull will gore us both,” he told her, his mouth thin. “But… _shit._ I don’t see how we have much choice. He can’t stay here.”

“Cullen,” she said, turning back to face him, “I cannot believe I’m saying this, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t have Dorian and a gigantic, very _scary_ Qunari as roommates. But I think it would be best if you stayed on my couch tonight.”

The muffled blare of more sirens from outside reached their ears.

“I don’t want to impose,” Cullen said, looking hesitant. He didn’t know these people from anyone else in this hospital. But after what Colonel Samson had pulled, he had to admit that he was shaken, too. And she seemed genuinely concerned.

“Freya will insist until she wears you down, so you might as well capitulate now,” Dorian told him, setting the IV to start again. “I’m going to go find out what’s being wheeled in this time.”

He left, and Freya turned back to Cullen.

“Really, I mean it. You need someplace safe to go. It’s just a few blocks away, I’ll give you a ride and you can get some rest and relax until you’re feeling up to going home.”

He met her gaze. She had lovely, kind eyes. Green with little flecks of gold around the irises.

“If you’re sure it’s not a burden,” he said, “I would be grateful.”

“I’ll let you stay in here until my shift is over. I’m on until three. I’ll be back to check on you in just a bit.” She turned to leave.

“Are you hurt?” Cullen asked her, worry evident in his voice, and she looked over her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “And about the lyrium… I really don’t know what you’re talking about. These seem like flu symptoms to me.”

She gave him a small smile and a shrug, then walked out the door, sliding it shut behind her.


	2. Ransacked

“So you live with Dorian here, and a Qunari named Bull?” Cullen asked as the three of them made their way through the parking garage adjacent to the hospital a little over two hours later.

“Well, his full name is Iron Bull,” said Dorian. “But Bull for short.”

“Is he your…?” Cullen trailed off, looking at Freya. She laughed.

“Me? No. Bull is Dorian’s boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” Dorian cut in, sounding slightly defensive.

“Not at all,” said Cullen, shrugging. “Never bothered me any. Pity the whole same sex marriage thing took so long to get passed. Plenty of LGBT folks in the military who didn’t get to have their lifelong partners properly cared for. Pledged their service and risked their lives for the United States of Thedas, and then the government spit in their faces.”

Dorian gave Freya an impressed sort of look.

“Well,” he said approvingly. “Ooh-rah to _you,_ Mr. Rutherford.”

Cullen gave him a small smile. It was hard to grin too broadly, now. The lidocaine had worn off, and he could feel the stitches pulling tight across the painful wound.

“This is me,” Freya said, stopping in front of her vehicle. Cullen looked from it to her and back again.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not all doctors drive BMWs,” she said, shrugging.

She was pulling open the door of a vintage Ford Bronco, which had been painted a light aqua color.

“I haven’t seen one of these since high school,” he said, smirking. “One of my dad’s friends drove one. Not in this condition, though. Or this color.”

Tossing her bags on the back seat, Freya climbed in, unlocking the rest of the doors.

“You take shotgun,” Dorian said to Cullen. “I can sit behind Freya. Plenty of leg room, since she has to be about six inches from the dash.”

“The short jokes _never_ get old,” she said, rolling her eyes. Cullen climbed in next to her. Once they were all buckled in, Freya fired up the engine. Cullen peered over at the odometer.

“Wow. Only fifty thousand miles? Are those original?”

“Yep,” she said, putting the car in reverse. “It sat unused in a garage for most of its life. I bought it about five years ago and a friend helped me get it fixed up.”

“Freya is one of those kinds who sort of attracts interesting people like a magnet, the way some old ladies attract stray cats,” Dorian explained. “So she has a friend who does just about everything. Need your car fixed? She knows a guy. Want a tattoo? Her friend owns a studio. Want to know about an obscure language or cultural custom? Call her buddy who’s an anthropologist.”

“I don’t suppose one of your friends is a lawyer?” he asked, thinking about what Samson had said.

“My boyfriend, actually,” said Dorian. “Bull mostly takes civil rights cases. A lot of Qunari and elf clients.”

“Any experience in military law?”

“No, not that I know of. But he does enjoy a challenge.”

The streets of Kirkwall were abuzz, even at this hour. Groups of people stumbled from the doors of nightclubs and taverns that were ushering them out to close up, and late-night eateries were brightly lit and filled with hungry--and likely drunk--patrons. Cullen eyed one of the restaurants as they passed, thinking longingly of a cheeseburger. His stomach growled loudly.

“Maker, was that your _belly?”_ asked Dorian.

Cullen nodded.

“I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“We could drive through somewhere, if you want,” Freya said. “What sounds good?”

“I haven’t got any cash on me,” he replied, looking embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Well, if you’re sure… I’d give anything for a burger and fries.”

Freya pulled into a fast food drive through and ordered Cullen’s meal. Dorian got food for himself and a large order for Bull, as well.

“Can one person really eat four burgers _and_ two chicken sandwiches all by themselves?” Cullen asked, sounding impressed. Dorian snorted.

“He’ll probably complain that I’m trying to put him on a diet.”

“Nothing for you?” Cullen asked Freya as they pulled up behind another car at the window.

“Vegetarian,” she said simply, digging a plastic debit card out of her wallet.

“Dirty hippie,” teased Dorian from the back seat.

“The ‘dirty hippie’ is buying your dinner, so I’d pipe down if I were you,” she said, grinning over her shoulder at him and sticking out her tongue.

 

A few minutes later, Freya pulled the Bronco into the parking garage of a building with “Skyhold Lofts” lit up in large letters on the side. They made their way to the elevator, and she punched the button for the sixth floor.

“Penthouse, eh?” asked Cullen.

“It was the only one with enough windows for all my plants,” she explained.

“You chose your apartment based on your _plants?”_ he asked, amused.

“Freya’s plants are like her leafy little children,” Dorian said. He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “She has a very elaborate watering schedule on the refrigerator. It’s _color-coded.”_

Freya put a hand on her hip, giving him a look. “Living with plants has been shown to reduce stress and improve--”

“Improve overall health, leading to better and longer lives. Yes, dear. We know.”

Cullen chuckled at their banter as the elevator dinged and the metal doors slid aside. Freya walked over to the apartment door and unlocked it, pushing it open.

“Home sweet home,” she said, walking in.

There was a huge man with an eye patch and large, steer-like horns sitting on a recliner, watching something with a lot of explosions on a flat-screen television on the wall. He looked up as they entered.

“Hey, you two. I was wondering what kept you,” he said, eyeing the paper bags full of food. He glanced behind Dorian and noticed Cullen, frowning. “Who’s the spare?”

“This is Cullen,” said Freya. “He’ll be staying the night.”

“Well, nice of you to ask _me_ first,” said Bull sarcastically, turning off the television. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you have good reason. ...Why is he covered in blood?”

“It’s my own, if that’s comforting,” said Cullen. “I was in a car wreck. Freya kindly offered me the couch for the night so I’d have a safe place to sleep.”

“There _is_ a good reason, and I’ll explain later,” said Dorian, pulling wrapped sandwiches and fries out of the bags at the dining room table. “Come get some food before it gets cold.”

The three men sat around the table, quietly chewing. Freya bustled around in the kitchen and appeared in the fourth chair a moment later, a bowl of salad in her hands.

Cullen looked around the apartment. It was very open, with windows lining the entirety of one wall facing the ocean that bordered Kirkwall. He could see the brightly lit marina in the distance, and faint glimmers of light from boats out on the water. Most of the walls of the loft were exposed brick, but the one opposite the windows was painted a bright, clean white. The furniture was a mixture of sleek, modern pieces and mid-century nostalgia. The table they were sitting at, for instance, was a chrome and vinyl number that looked straight out of an old-fashioned diner.

Dorian hadn’t been kidding about the greenery. There were plants everywhere-- dangling from exposed pipes and hooks on the wall in braided rope hangers, set on end tables and shelves in pots and terrariums, and even a large staghorn fern mounted on the wall in a wooden box.

She also had several vintage medical illustrations framed on the walls, and an impressive variety of bones and skeletons. A halla skull hung on one wall, its intertwining horns reaching halfway to the vaulted ceilings, and he noticed a large vertebra on one table, cradling a pot of succulents in its center.

“You have an interesting collection of animal parts,” he said, dipping a handful of fries into his mound of ketchup.

“I did my undergrad in zoology,” she explained. “Back when I thought I wanted to be a vet. I switched to human medicine, but I’ve always loved animal anatomy. I articulate the skeletons myself. Sort of a hobby of mine.”

“I find them unsettling, personally,” said Dorian. “Sometimes I have nightmares about them, most of which involve flashbacks to my comparative A&P course in college. Which I nearly flunked. You don’t know terror until you’ve had one of her skeletons come to life in your dreams and ask you to point to its sphenoid bone.”

Freya snorted.

They finished their very late dinner (or, depending on how you looked at it, very early breakfast), and then Bull and Dorian retired to their room after loaning Cullen a pair of sweats and a clean shirt. Freya disappeared momentarily to allow him to change and fetch some covers and a pillow. He was tugging the shirt down over his stomach when she returned, and she caught a glimpse of well-defined abs before he pulled the hem down. She was instantly glad he wasn’t looking at her expression.

“University of Kirkwall, huh?” he said, reading the letters across his chest. “Helluva basketball program.”

“Go K-Hawks,” Freya said, smiling. “Although if our team doesn’t pull their heads out of their asses on defense, we won’t even make the Sweet 16 this year.”

“Smart, pretty, _and_ a basketball fan,” said Cullen, looking impressed. Freya felt herself blushing and kept on talking, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“All three of us went there, though obviously different programs, so we never ran into one another until long after college. Dorian thinks we might have taken an organic chem lecture together, but there were 300 people in that class, so it could just as easily have been another redheaded elf. Where did you go?”

“Redcliffe,” he answered. “Home of the Fighting Mabaris.”

“Ah. A Southern boy. That explains the accent.”

“I don’t have an accent,” he replied, smirking.

“That’s what all Fereldens think.” She handed him the pillow and a soft fleece blanket. “The bathroom is the door next to Bull and Dorian’s. It’s technically _their_ bathroom, but I’m sure they won’t mind if you use it. Towels are in the closet in there. Wish I had a spare toothbrush to offer you.”

“I can just use my finger,” he said, shrugging. “Doubt my teeth will rot out after one night of semi-neglect.”

She eyed the darkening bruise on his temple.

“How’s your head? That acetaminophen has probably worn off by now.”

“It’s pretty achey, actually.”

“Hold on,” she said. “I’ll get you something.”

She walked back to her bedroom and returned a moment later with a large white pill.

“Prescription strength ibuprofen,” she told him, handing it to him. “Tylenol doesn’t do dick for me, so I never keep it around. This should make you comfortable and keep that fever from sneaking up on you again.”

She walked to the kitchen and got down a glass, filling it with filtered water from a pitcher in the refrigerator.

“Help yourself to food if you get hungry. Just not the chocolate ice cream, if you value your extremities.”

“Bull’s, I take it?” he asked, grinning.

“No,” she said. “Mine, actually. He’s not the only one in the house who can be scary.”

Cullen chuckled. “Noted.”

“So, my room is right there. If you need anything else, just knock. I hope you’re able to get some good rest.”

“Dr. Lavellan,” he said as she turned to leave. She stopped and met his gaze.

“You can just call me Freya.”

“Freya, then,” he replied. “I don’t quite know how to thank you for giving me a safe place to sleep. I’d have been walking a long way across town on my own tonight, otherwise.”

“It’s no biggie. Just, you know... don’t make me regret trusting you.”

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

She headed for her bedroom, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Sleep well, Cullen.”

“You too,” he said, smiling at her as she shut the door. He turned around to walk toward the couch, and he heard her door creak back open. She peeked out at him, narrowing her eyes.

“Seriously, though, I know how much ice cream is in that carton.”

She made a V-shape with her fingers and pointed them at her own eyes, then at his, in an “I’m-watching-you” gesture. Cullen laughed quietly to himself as he fluffed the pillow against one arm rest, and her door clicked shut again behind him.

 

* * *

 

The rich, comforting smell of coffee roused Cullen a few hours later that morning. He woke to see soft morning light pouring through the windows. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes blearily.

Freya looked up from the kitchen island where she was pouring herself a mug. She grinned at his unkempt appearance, blonde curls sticking up at odd angles. He stood and stretched, and the action raised the hem of his shirt enough that she could see the thin line of blonde hair trailing down his belly and the crease at his hip that disappeared into the drawstring waistband of his sweatpants. She realized she was staring, then looked down to see that she had overpoured, a small amount of coffee spilling over onto the countertop.

 _Smooth,_ she thought to herself. She hurriedly wiped it up with a paper towel and dumped the excess from her cup back into the pot before he noticed.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said, walking to the refrigerator to grab a carton of almond milk. “I was trying to be as quiet as I could.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, turning toward her and scratching his head. “Military service makes you a light sleeper.”  He walked toward the kitchen, reading the time on the microwave. It was half past nine. “I’d have thought you’d want more sleep after the night we had, though.”

“I try to undersleep a little on my first day of an off-week,” she explained. “Want some coffee?”

“Maker, yes.”

“Good. I don’t trust people who don’t like coffee. How do you take it?”

“Black,” he said, watching as she turned to reach for another mug in an upper cabinet.

She was wearing a tank top this morning, and he could see that the tattoo he had glimpsed the night before covered her entire left arm and capped her shoulder. It looked like an intricate piece, incorporating constellations and some sort of animal skeleton, highlighted by the blue-white glow of connected stars within the bones.  

She poured him a cup of the steaming, fragrant coffee. It smelled like she had brewed it strong. She handed him the mug, and he took a long drink. 

“What do you mean by off-week?” he asked her over the rim of the cup. 

“The hospital schedules the overnight shifts for twelve hours each night for seven nights. Then, we get seven days off. It’s like having a week of hell, followed by a week’s vacation. Except vacation is hard to enjoy when you know you’re headed back to hell.” 

“Is it hard to adjust to being awake during daytime hours after a week of being a vampire?” he asked.

She nodded. 

“Hence me undersleeping on the first day. Helps get me back into a normal-person schedule. Dorian, on the other hand, will sleep until further notice if given the chance.” 

They stood there quietly for a moment, leaning on opposite sides of the counter and sipping their coffee.

“I like your ink,” Cullen said, breaking the silence.

“Oh,” said Freya, looking down at her arm. “Thank you. My friend Sera is a tattoo artist. She did that for me about a year ago.”

“It’s very unique. What animal is that?”

“A rabbit,” she replied with a smirk, turning her arm so he could see the whole thing. “I can’t draw worth a damn, but she took a really crappy sketch of mine and turned it into this. I think she more than did it justice.” 

She looked up at him. 

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“Just the required one,” he replied, lifting his sleeve to reveal an emblem she recognized. A flaming sword, the symbol of the Templar Division, was emblazoned in black ink on his upper arm, along with “USMC” in large letters above it and his serial number printed below. 

“Of course,” Freya said. “I’d forgotten about that for a second.”

She looked back at his face and noticed that he had a little line of dried blood on his lip from where his wound must have oozed overnight. Crossing to the roll of paper towels, she pulled one off, wetting it with hot water from the tap, then came around the side of the kitchen island toward him.

“Come here,” she said. “You bled a little.” 

He leaned down, and she gently wiped the blood away. Glancing up, she saw that his gaze was locked on her eyes. Her heart gave a jump in her chest, and she swallowed hard.  

Cullen could see from this distance that she had a smattering of freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. Her hands were delightfully soft without a layer of latex over them, and a faintly floral scent reached his nose. He was momentarily overcome by an irrational urge to lean down and kiss her, but he pushed it away. They’d known one another for, what, a little over nine hours? Maker, what was _wrong_ with him? 

She turned away from him, balling up the red-tinged paper towel in her hand and coming back to the other side of the island to toss it in a trash can behind a cabinet under the sink. He cleared his throat. 

“I probably bled on your pillow, too,” he said apologetically. “Sorry, if I did.”

She gave him a small smile. “That’s why I have a washing machine.”

They were quiet again, and Cullen drained the rest of his coffee rather quickly, excusing himself for a shower.  

Freya retreated to her room until after she heard him emerge from the hall bathroom, fearful that he might decide to waltz out shirtless, or--gods forbid--wearing just a towel. She didn’t think she could keep upright if that happened. Spilling her coffee had been bad enough, but she didn’t think she could live through the shame of outright swooning. Why did he have to be so damn _attractive?_

A soft knock sounded on her door a few minutes later. 

“Come in,” she called, looking up from the book in her hands. She’d been attempting to read, but after going over the same sentence five times and absorbing none of it, she’d just stared blankly at the page, trying to think of anything but his skin. 

Cullen peeked his head in the door. 

“If you’re feeling up to it,” he told her, “I can probably go back to my place now. I don’t need to take up your whole day.” 

She set the book down on the bed and hopped off.

“Sure,” she replied, “let me just grab my shoes.”

 

Ten minutes later, they were in Freya’s Bronco again, exiting the parking garage.

“Head toward the Darktown neighborhood,” he told her. She nodded and turned onto the street in front of her building.

“So,” she said, leaning back in her seat with one hand on the wheel, “you and the Colonel seem to have some history.” 

“Samson was my commanding officer when I was starting out as a Marine,” he said, looking out the window at the buildings and pedestrians as they whizzed by. “He’s the reason I’m a Templar. Well... _was_ a Templar. He recommended me for the program after… after Kinloch.” 

“Shit, you were at _Kinloch?”_ Freya asked him, looking over with her eyebrows raised. Cullen nodded. 

It was possibly the most famous act of terrorism in recent Thedas history, when a man with a vest bomb and a collection of other weapons had taken several civilians and a few military personnel hostage inside the Kinloch Federal Building in Ferelden, taunting and torturing them for hours before he was finally taken down by the USMC. There had been no shortage of civilian casualties in the skirmish, too. The soldiers taken hostage had all had to undergo psychiatric therapy. The story had been all over the news, and the Templar program had started shortly afterward.

“After that, I wasn’t in a good place,” he told her. “I was self-destructive, and on more than one occasion I put my fellow Marines at risk. Samson recognized that I still had the potential to be a good soldier, though. He thought that with a little more discipline and some… re-programming, I could avoid being discharged.” 

“So… what happened?” 

He glanced over at her. 

“I joined the Templars,” he said, shrugging. “I went through the program. Weeks of evaluations and behavior modification, then they started me on lyrium.” 

“What does the lyrium do, exactly?” she asked. “Other than make you dependent on our fucked-up military once you become addicted, of course.” 

“Gives us increased strength and stamina, heightens our senses. Decreases our fear. They told us it made us better soldiers. It just made us better slaves.” 

There was silence for several minutes. 

“Turn here,” Cullen said, pointing. “Left.” 

Freya looked over at him as she turned the truck. He was fidgeting with the plastic shopping bag he’d stuffed all his dirty clothing into.  

“I’d wanted to get out, but they don’t leave you a way to do that without repercussions,” he said. “Honestly, I’m terrified I’m going to get locked up for life now. Driving without lyrium is a felony for Templars, because of the danger it poses to civilians. And then, while being AWOL, too? I was reckless and stupid. And now you and Dorian are knee-deep in my mess, too. I feel like such a fuckup.” 

She shook her head. 

“Don’t worry about us,” she said. “Dorian and I can handle ourselves. We know what’s at stake, but neither of us scares easily. And we have Bull to help. I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure they don’t have evidence of you driving without lyrium. Which wasn’t your best idea, obviously, but that doesn’t make you a fuckup. Just a guy who made a mistake.” 

She reached over and squeezed his wrist, an act of affection that visibly took him by surprise. He stared down at her slender fingers around his arm, and she drew them back quickly. He turned his gaze back up to her face, but she was looking determinedly through the windshield. 

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m a toucher. I forget a lot of the time that not everyone likes that. I should really start asking first.” 

“I didn’t mind it,” he replied. “It was just... surprising. It’s been a long time since another person touched me out of kindness and not necessity.”

Gods, that was a fucking sad thing to hear, she thought to herself, shooting him a sidelong glance. He pointed through the windshield to a building coming up. 

“This is it,” he said, and Freya pulled into the parking lot of the seediest looking motel she’d seen in Kirkwall. Which was saying a lot, given how much competition there was for that title. 

“Cullen,” she said, turning to him, her brow furrowed. “You neglected to mention that you live in a shithole motel.” 

“You say ‘shithole motel’ like it’s news to me,” he replied, giving her a sad smile. “I know it’s not the nicest place, but it’s all I can afford. The Corps isn’t exactly depositing wages into my bank account anymore.” 

“You can’t stay here,” she told him. “The roaches are probably already plotting to carry you off in the middle of the night.” 

“It’s not that bad,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve only killed a few.” 

“You’ll probably get your lip infected from sleeping on pillows that haven’t had a proper wash for three years. And then it’ll fall right off your face. Lipless Rutherford, Disgraced Ex-Templar. That’s what they’ll call you.” 

Cullen suppressed a chuckle. She was looking out her window, eyeing the vacancy sign on a tall pole near the road. The second “A” was hanging upside down below the rest of the letters, swinging gently in the soft breeze that was blowing outside. 

“Freya,” he said gently, “I appreciate your concern. I truly do. But I don’t have the means for anything nicer right now. I’ll be fine. I’m fairly confident my lip will stay on my face.” 

She turned to him again. For the second time that day, she said something she knew was probably completely outside the realm of rational thinking. 

“Come back home with me,” she said earnestly. He opened his mouth to protest, already shaking his head, but she cut him off. “I _can’t_ let you stay here, Cullen. I’m serious. This place is awful. It looks like the set of a horror flick. Besides, we have security at our building. Here, you’re a sitting duck. Hell, the desk manager would probably sell the spare key to your room for a pack of Camels and a smile.”

Cullen leaned back in the seat, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling of the Bronco.

“You don’t know me, Freya. You have absolutely no reason to trust me.” 

“I know, but… I _do,_ for whatever reason. I just have this unwavering feeling that you’re a good guy in a bad situation. Maybe it’s ridiculous and maybe it’ll bite me in the ass. But I can see you’re in some deep shit right now, and you need help. You shouldn’t be going through the withdrawal all by yourself in some shitty hotel room. Please, let me do this for you.”

He turned to her, a slight smirk on his face. “I could be a serial killer, you know.”

“You’re probably _not,”_ she said. “But if you do anything to me, Bull will skin you and wear your pelt. So I’m not that worried.”

He chuckled softly. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the door handle and pushed it open.  “I’ll go check out and get my things.” 

Freya killed the engine as he walked away and rolled down her window to let in a breeze while she waited. She pulled her cell phone out and had a quick text conversation with Dorian. 

 

  
  
She smiled, tucking her phone back in a compartment on the dash.

A few minutes later, she looked up to see Cullen walking briskly back to her truck, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. As he got closer, Freya noticed that he was wearing a strange expression. She fired up the engine again, and he looked at her as he got into the car and tossed his bag behind them.

“My room was searched.” 

“What?” asked Freya, eyes wide.

“Drive,” said Cullen. “I don’t want to linger here. Try to take some side roads and loop back on our route a few times. Let’s make sure we’re not followed.” 

Freya nodded, turning the truck around and pulling out of the parking lot. 

“Was anything missing?” 

“Yes. A flash drive.”

“Was there anything important on it?” she asked, giving him a glance. He was clenching his jaw. 

_“Yes.”_

She looked at him, unable to read his expression. “What was on the flash drive, Cullen?”  

He gave her a look, obviously uncertain. 

“Hey, I’m showing you a helluva lot of trust by letting you into my home,” she said, frowning. 

“It’s not a matter of trust. I don’t want to give them a reason to hurt you if they find me.” 

“Let _me_ worry about me,” she said. “What were they so hell-bent on getting that they tore up your room?”

Cullen heaved a sigh. 

“The flash drive was encrypted. I haven’t been able to crack it. That’s why I was driving last night. I was meeting a contact who may have been able to help.” 

“But you must know _something_ about what was on it, or else why try so hard to break the encryption?” 

“Oh, I _know_ what’s on it. Just not the details.”

They had pulled up to a stoplight, and she dropped her hands from the steering wheel and turned toward him, an expectant look on her face. “Well?" she asked. "What the hell is it?” 

“That flash drive contained everything that’s been documented about a secret military operation.”

“A 'secret military operation?' That sounds like something out of a sci-fi show.” 

“It’s not far off,” he said. “I believe the military is conducting unethical experiments on the Templars for something called Project Ruby.”

“What’s Project Ruby?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“That’s the problem,” Cullen answered, shrugging. “I haven’t got a clue.”


	3. Revelations

Freya left the apartment again after writing down Cullen’s clothing sizes. He only had the one pair of jeans and the bloody white t-shirt he’d worn to the ER. Everything else was fatigues, and with someone obviously on his trail, the less conspicuous he was, the better. So she headed off to get him some things while he explained to the other men what he’d told Freya in the car.

Dorian let out a low whistle when he got to the part about the flash drive.

“Do you think it was the Corps who broke into your room?” asked Bull. “Maybe they wanted to recover it?”

“It could be. But it could also be any number of other organizations. I’m not sure if I’ve been tailed or monitored, but I can’t rule it out. So your guess is as good as mine, at this point.”

“That’s almost worse, not knowing” said Dorian. “Now we can’t plan for how to get it back.”

“Get it back?” Cullen asked, shaking his head. “We don’t _need_ it back.”  
  
Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Hold on, wasn’t this the whole reason you left the Templars? It seemed like this was your crusade.”

“That wasn’t the only one. It was a backup. I created two more copies.”

Cullen walked over to the duffel bag on the couch and dug around for a minute, then came up with a battered-looking copy of the Chant of Light. He brought it over to where the other two men were sitting. Opening it, he set it on the table. The majority of the center of the book had been cut away, and another flash drive was velcroed in place inside it.

“Nobody ever thinks to check the Chant,” he said, shrugging.

“Probably because that’s, you know, _sacrilege,”_ said Dorian, looking somewhat scandalized at the hollowed-out holy book.

“I’m sure the Maker will forgive me if it means saving innocent people.”

“And besides,” said Bull, giving Dorian an amused look, “when was the last time you even cracked open a copy of the Chant?”

“Fair point,” Dorian conceded. “Where’s the third copy?”

“In a safety deposit box at a bank here in the city. The biggest concern with someone having taken the copy from my hotel room is that they _knew_ it was there. So someone knows I at least _have_ this information, whether or not I’ve actually been able to access it.”

“If it’s the military looking for it, they’ll already know what’s contained in those files,” said Bull, “and taking top-secret information gives them more fuel against you. But if it’s not them, and someone else knows you have it, and they break the encryption first…”

“Right,” said Cullen. “It’s bad news either way.”

The three of them sat there quietly for a moment, looking at the small black thumb drive inside the carved-out book.

“But you’re not even sure what this Project Ruby entails, exactly?” asked Dorian.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I was explaining what I know to Freya on the way home. Men from my division began disappearing about nine months ago. And by disappear, I mean _disappear._ They just stopped showing up for their assigned duties. Their personnel records didn’t give any information about discharge, no deaths or injuries reported, no medical or personal leave taken. Just… _gone._ The only thing I could find to connect them all was this ‘Project Ruby.’ And it’s highly classified, way above my clearance level. Well, I suppose everything’s above my clearance level now. But even as First Sergeant, I didn’t have access.”

“Was there anything unusual that happened to these men before they disappeared?” Bull asked.

“Just one that I know of. Lance Corporal James Carroll. Before he stopped showing up, there was an… _incident_ in his housing unit. He was having a poker night with some of the guys at his place, and he lost a hand and suddenly went berserk. Flipped the table over, started throwing things, threatened his fellow Templars. Broke a guy’s jaw. Just completely unprovoked rage, totally out of character for him. Nobody ever saw him again after that night.”

“Do you think there’s a connection?”

“Absolutely,” Cullen answered. “He was an incredibly even-tempered person. No way this didn’t have something to do with it.”

“So how did you get the encrypted files?” Dorian asked.

“Broke into Samson’s office on base the night I went AWOL. I busted the lock on his filing cabinet and went through everything, found all the personnel files I mentioned. Then I downloaded everything I could about Project Ruby from his computer. His password was painfully easy to guess. Just his dog’s name.”

“Fucking Fereldens,” snorted Bull.

“For once, the stereotype worked in my favor,” answered Cullen with a grin. “But when I got home, none of the files were readable. Just gibberish and symbols. So I made copies and then got the hell out of Ferelden.”

“Who else knows you have this?” asked Bull.

“Just you guys and Freya. And whoever Lobo is.”

“Lobo?” Dorian asked, looking confused.

“The person I was going to meet last night. A computer hacker, so that’s almost certainly not his real name. Used to do some work for the military, trying to break into their systems to prove their security worked, that sort of thing. But he had some sort of falling out with them, got his contract revoked. He fell off the face of the earth for about two years, then resurfaced a little after the Templar program began, very vocally against it. Nobody has been able to track him down, though. He’s a hermit. I was amazed he’d agreed to meet with me.”

“Did he know you had all these drives?”

“Well, I told him I had encrypted data that was highly classified. And that it was regarding the Templars. But I told him I wouldn’t be handing it over until I was sure he was trustworthy.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Bull. “You were going to meet a guy who _never_ meets with people in person, to hand over information he _knew_ was highly classified from an organization he’d fallen out of favor with. An organization he openly _hates_. And you told him you’d be leaving that information behind. And then you get into a car accident, and mysteriously--that _same_ night--someone steals that information.” He paused, looking at Cullen like he was explaining that two plus two was four. “You got set up, man.”

Cullen and Dorian both looked gobsmacked.

“Well, when you put it like that…” Cullen said, “I feel stupid for not connecting the dots sooner.”

“The only question, though,” asked Dorian, “is did Samson set you up to keep you from getting that information decoded or passing it off to this Lobo guy? Or did Lobo set you up so he could get the information himself?”

“Could have been Lobo, I suppose. I admit, I don’t know a lot about the guy. But I mean, I certainly wouldn’t put it past Samson, either. Not at all.”

“After seeing him last night, neither would I. I haven’t seen Freya that scared since Karena.”

“Who’s Karena?” asked Cullen. Bull and Dorian exchanged dark looks.

“Freya’s ex-girlfriend,” replied Dorian. “She was… not a nice person.”

“She was an _abusive bitch,”_ said Bull. “Just tell it like it is.”

Cullen looked from one to the other. “How long ago was this?” he asked.

“They split up a little over a year ago,” said Dorian. “They lived here together, by themselves. Freya started acting strange, distancing herself from me and the rest of her friends. She started wearing long sleeves to work all the time. At first, I thought it was just because she gets cold easily, you know, because she’s such a little slip of a thing. But even on nights when we were running around and sweating like pigs, she wore long sleeves. She was hiding bruises, but we didn’t know it.”

“Karena was a big woman,” said Bull. “A Qunari. She must’ve outweighed Freya by almost a hundred pounds. Poor thing had no way to fight back.”

“And then one day she showed up at the ER four hours before our shift was supposed to start, wheeled in on a stretcher with fractured ribs and a concussion. Karena had thrown her like a ragdoll across the room.”

“Shit,” said Cullen, looking disgusted and angry all at once.

“She stayed in the hospital for a day while I contacted a judge,” said Bull. “Took out a restraining order, got charges filed. I personally came over here with a set of new locks and watched Karena pack her shit, then escorted her off the premises with Kirkwall PD. Represented Freya in court a few weeks later and sent her ass to prison.”

“But in the meantime,” Dorian added, “she had been stalking Freya online, calling her relentlessly, sending her death threats. She never felt safe alone in this apartment again, so she asked Bull and I if we wanted to move in. And we did.”

“Wow,” Cullen breathed. “How horrible for her.”

“That’s why it’s so surprising to me that she was so quick to trust you,” said Dorian. “After all the hell she’s been through in the last couple of years, for her to just invite you into her place without even blinking… well, we just figure she must really feel strongly about it in her gut, and if that’s enough for her, it’s enough for us.”

“But,” said Bull, giving Cullen a stern look, “if you do _anything_ to hurt her, I will literally rip you into teeny tiny pieces and sell you as chum on the docks.”

“Noted,” Cullen said, nodding. He looked down at the table, studying the pattern in the vinyl. He tried to sound nonchalant as he asked the question that was now niggling at his brain. “So… Freya likes women, huh?”

“Freya likes _people,”_ said Dorian, shrugging. “I think she’s generally more concerned about what’s in a person’s heart than their pants. I’ve seen her take interest in men and women. Though I think she’s only been on maybe two dates since Karena.”

Cullen felt a small weight lifted from his mind. The logical part of his brain was questioning why he even cared. It wasn’t like this was a good time in his life to pursue anything with anyone. But there was another, larger part of him that didn’t seem to want to acknowledge that. She wasn’t _not_ interested in men. That was good enough for the moment.

The door opened a moment later, and Freya walked in with her arms covered in plastic shopping bags. Cullen jumped up to help her, taking several of them and carrying them to the table. She thanked him and walked behind him to set hers down, eyeing the hollowed-out book on the table.

“The flash drive?” she asked. “Wait ... _how?”_

The three men filled her in on their conversation, from the backup flash drives to the failed rendezvous with Lobo, and Bull’s revelation about the car accident. Freya began taking shirts, several pairs of pants, and bundles of socks out of the bags as they finished talking. Picking up a plastic-wrapped package, she looked a little embarrassed as she handed them to Cullen.

“So… I forgot to ask if you were a boxers or briefs guy before I left. I just split the difference and got these.”

He looked down at a six-pack of grey boxer-briefs.

“These will be fine,” he told her, grinning. He could see a pink tinge on her cheeks, and she was avoiding his gaze.

“So you guys think the car was sabotaged?” she asked, hastily changing the subject back to the accident.

“Good possibility,” said Bull.  
  
“Well, you know what that means,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “We need Blackwall.”


	4. Pizza Night

Tommy “Blackwall” Rainier, as it turned out, was Freya’s mechanic friend, the same one who had helped her restore her Bronco.

Cullen listened to her end of the conversation she had with him on the phone a few hours later, and it was obvious they had a familiar, comfortable sort of friendship. In fact, so far, all of Freya’s friendships seemed this way--easygoing, playful, with unwavering mutual loyalty. He couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous of the way she seemed to be surrounded by people who were willing to drop what they were doing and put themselves out there for her. He’d never had anyone like that in his life who wasn’t a blood relative.

Not that he could blame them. Freya seemed like the sort of person who was impossible to dislike.

She hung up the phone and looked at him, her expression pleased.

“Blackwall says as soon as we call tomorrow and find out where your car’s impounded, he can come with us to check it out. And that will also give you the chance to get anything out of it that you need.”

“Good,” said Cullen. “My cell phone is still in there, somewhere.”

Bull and Dorian emerged from their room a few minutes later, both dressed for going out.

“Where are _you_ going?” she asked, looking affronted.

“Movie,” said Dorian. “That new fantasy thing, the alternative history of Thedas. Bull’s very excited about dragons, or something.”

“But it’s Sunday,” she said, pouting her lower lip. “It’s pizza night.”

“We haven’t been on a date in like three months,” said Bull. “Besides, I bet the jarhead likes pizza.”

“Guilty as charged,” said Cullen, smiling at her. “We can split a pie.”

“Do you like mushroom and pineapple?” she asked, looking hopeful.

“Okay,” said Cullen. “Maybe _separate_ pizzas.”

“What a shame,” said Dorian with a smirk. “It could have been love.”

Freya sighed. “Someday, I’ll find my pizza soulmate.”

“C’mon kadan,” Bull said, prodding Dorian gently in the back. “We’re going to miss the previews.”

“Have fun,” Freya told them, waving as they left and locking the door behind them. She took out her phone and began tapping on the screen. “I’m starving. What do you want on your pizza?”

“Do they have like a supreme kind of thing?" Cullen asked. "Meat and veggies?”

She nodded. “Crust?”

“Thick.”

“Well, at least we agree on _something,”_ she said. “I will never understand thin crust pizza. If I wanted that, I’d spread tomato sauce on a cracker.”

Chuckling, he walked over to his duffel bag and dug around until he found his envelope of cash. He fished out a few bills. Freya glanced up at him and waved a hand at him.

“Put it away,” she said, frowning. “You should save whatever you have.”

“You paid last night,” he said.

“Yeah, for a five dollar burger meal.”

“Still,” he said, looking determined. “You’re doing so much for me. You don’t need to buy tonight.”

“Will it make you happy if I let you pay the tip?” she asked, resuming tapping on the screen.

“No.”

“It’s not happening, Cullen.”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you for it,” he said, and Freya looked up, arching an eyebrow. He was flexing comically, looking admiringly at his own large bicep stretching the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re right, unfair advantage. I’m far too ripped. Flip a coin? Rock-paper-scissors?”

She was smiling broadly at him now, trying to keep from laughing as little creases wrinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes. He noticed that she had a single, adorable dimple.

“What about a dance-off?” he asked. “Do you know the Macarena?”

He started doing the moves and wiggling his hips, and she had her head in her hand now, giggling so hard her shoulders shook.

“Fine,” she said finally, looking up and shaking her head. “You can pay tonight, you big dork.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed, pumping his fist. “Victory!”

An hour later, the tantalizing smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the apartment. Cullen set the boxes on the coffee table, and Freya brought a pair of plates over from the kitchen, as well as a couple of bottles of beer.

“Do you drink?” she asked, holding them up.

“Is the Divine Andrastian?” he asked, smirking. She grinned and handed him one.

“Hope you like Hanged Man Brewery,” she said. “It’s my favorite. And they’re local, which is nice. This one is their summer IPA. Really hoppy.”

He was looking at her with his eyebrows raised.

“You know your basketball _and_ you drink good beer?” he asked. “Now I’m just _convinced_ I’m dreaming.”

She turned slightly pink again, popping the caps off with a bottle opener. Leaning over his pizza, Cullen inhaled deeply, then pulled out a slice with a broad smile on his face. There was nothing quite like the smell of fresh, hot pizza. The cheese topping was satisfyingly stretchy, and he had to break it apart with his fingers before setting it on his plate.

“You feel like watching anything?” she asked as he took a bite. “We have Netflix. And about a hundred thousand movies. Dorian has a Blu-Ray problem.”

Cullen shrugged, chewing.

“If you really want,” he said. “We could also just... _talk.”_

“Okay,” she said after a brief pause, feeling her heart give a firm little thump. Picking up the remote, she turned on a sound system sitting on a shelf below the television. “Do you mind music? The apartment is too quiet at night without something on.”

At those words, Cullen thought back to what Bull and Dorian had told him about her discomfort at being alone here and everything she'd been through, and he felt a pang of sadness for her.

“Whatever you like, Freya,” he replied, giving her a small smile.

She flipped through her phone again and opened up a music app. “Preferences?” she asked, tapping away.

“Not country.”

She grinned. “That’s what I always tell people, too,” she said. “I have no idea how people stand that shit.”

She turned on some folksy-sounding indie rock and turned it down so it was audible but easy to talk over.

“So,” he said, leaning back on the couch with his slice. “Tell me about Freya Lavellan, M.D.”

“Um… well, I’ve been in the Free Marches my whole life, other than vacations and stuff. I have two younger brothers, Aaron and Sal. Aaron is in his sophomore year at KU and Sal is in middle school.”

“Wow,” said Cullen. “Big age gaps.”

Freya nodded.

“My parents had trouble conceiving in between all of us. Lots of trying and a lot of miscarriages. Mom calls us her Miracle Trio.”

“What do they do?” he asked. "Your parents."

“Mom’s an obstetrician in Starkhaven. My dad’s still in town. He owns a butcher shop and charcuterie.”

“Woof, that must be awkward for you,” he said, arching a brow.

“Why do you think I became a vegetarian?” she asked with a smirk.

“So your parents aren’t together, then?”

“Nope, they split when I was in college, when Sal was little. It was best for everyone. They’re better as friends.”

She looked up, raising her beer to her lips.

“What about you?” she asked before taking a sip.

“My parents are both gone,” he said. “Mom got cancer while I was in college. I only finished about three semesters before she died, and then I dropped out and enlisted. My dad couldn’t handle losing her, kind of went in a downward spiral after that. He was in and out of rehab for awhile, and then one day my brother came home and found him dead. He’d overdosed on pills. There was no note, but it may very well have been intentional.”

“Oh, Cullen,” said Freya, empathy evident in her voice. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

“So am I,” he said. “They were both good people who got dealt shitty hands in life. I mean, my mom actually coped really well after her diagnosis, but she still died, and that was the impetus for all my dad’s problems. It seemed incredibly unfair. Shook my faith something fierce.”

“I bet,” she replied in a quiet voice. “Is it just you and your brother?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I have a couple of sisters, too, and a nephew. I don’t talk to them as often as I should. They don’t even know I left the Marines yet.”

He gazed off into nothing for a second, then looked at Freya.

“Wow, _that_ was a fucking downer conversation, huh?” he asked, frowning. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Freya. “You’re just telling your story. Reality isn’t always sunbeams and rainbows.”

“That’s the fucking truth,” he said. He took a long pull from his bottle.

“So what did you study at Redcliffe?”

“Oh, I was still undeclared when I left, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Mostly, at the time, I just wanted to play football.”

“You were on the team?”

“Yup,” said Cullen, taking out a second slice. “That’s how I was able to afford college. Quarterback for a year and a half, until I dropped out.”

“Huh,” said Freya. “We played Redcliffe a couple times a year. I probably watched you on the field.”

“Thedas is smaller than people realize,” he said, smiling. “Did you do any sports?”

“Track,” she said, “but I wasn’t good enough for a scholarship. Which is a shame, because student loans are no fucking joke.”

They continued eating their pizza, reminiscing about their college years and sipping away at their beers. By the time they’d finished their second bottle each, Cullen was feeling satisfyingly full. Freya had stopped after a slice and a half, saving room on purpose. She got up and put the pizza in the fridge, then grabbed the carton of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

She plopped back down on the couch next to Cullen with a spoon and pulled the lid off.

“Straight out of the container, huh?” he asked, grinning.

“What can I say? I’m a heathen.”

He watched her put a small bite into her mouth, her eyes practically rolling up into her head in ecstacy. She dug the spoon in again and held it out. “Want a bite? Probably feel great on your lip.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You’re offering _me_ a bite of your precious frozen treasure?” he asked, putting a hand to his chest. “I feel so _honored.”_

“You better get this bite fast, it’s about to--”

A fat drop of melted ice cream dripped onto the couch with a soft “splat,” and Freya looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Do _not_ tell Bull we got ice cream on his sofa,” she said. “And hurry up and take this, before it does it again.”

Cullen obediently opened his mouth, and Freya gently pushed the spoon onto his tongue, then leapt up to get a paper towel. He grabbed the handle of the spoon and pulled it back out, rolling the cold ball of ice cream around in his mouth. She was right--it did feel good on his sore lip. He watched her jog back to the sofa to blot up the stain, her small breasts bouncing a little with the movement. He looked back down at the carton of ice cream, pretending to be keenly interested in it and hoping she hadn’t seen him eyeballing her chest.

“I’m glad I Scotch-Guarded this thing,” she said, dabbing at the small spot of cream. It came up easily. “That man always knows when something has been spilled or someone forgot to use a coaster. He has a sixth sense for stains and water rings.”

“So I take it the coffee table is his, too?”

“All the nice stuff is his,” said Freya. “Mine is all the beat up vintage shit. I tend to get all my pieces from antique stores and garage sales. I like that they’ve all got character, and stories to tell. Most things just need a few screws tightened or a new coat of paint, and they’re fine.”

"You know what I think?" asked Cullen.

"What's that?"

“I think you just like taking something sad and broken, and bringing it home and making it feel cared for again,” he said softly. She looked up at him.

“Are we still talking about furniture?” she asked him.

He was giving her an unblinking, sincere sort of gaze.

“No,” he said.

He reached out and brushed a loose piece of her hair behind the point of her ear. It was the most intimate thing he’d done to another person since, what, his first year out of basic? He felt touch-starved, and all he wanted to do was run his hands down the curve of her cheek, over her collarbone and across her freckled shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin. Well, maybe that wasn’t _all_ he wanted to do. But it would be a great start.

Freya felt her heart slamming against her chest, and she was sure he must be able to hear it. She looked away, clearing her throat.

“How about that movie?” she asked.


	5. Evidence

When Freya opened her bedroom door the following morning, the first thing she heard was the sizzle of food cooking in a skillet. The smell of brewed coffee was thick in the air, mixed with the savory scent of sauteed onions. Walking out into the main area of the loft, she found Cullen standing over the stove with a spatula in his hand, already dressed for the day. She was pleased to see that the jeans she’d purchased fit him well. _Very_ well, she thought to herself with a grin.

“Glad your new clothes worked out okay,” she said, walking up to the kitchen island. He looked up at her and returned her smile.

“They’re great,” he told her. “Thank you again for getting all of it for me.”

Putting the spatula down, he poured coffee into a clean mug, handing it to her. “Room for almond milk,” he said. She looked impressed. “What? I pay attention. Do you like scrambled eggs?”

“I do,” she answered with a smile, setting the mug down and walking to the refrigerator.

“Good, because it’s about all I can cook. I called the police station a few minutes ago and found out where the car got towed. So as soon as we can pick up your friend, we can head over.”

She finished adding the milk to her coffee, then grabbed a loaf of bread down from the top of the refrigerator. “I can make us some toast if you want,” she said.

“Sounds great,” he answered. “Do you think Bull and Dorian will want some eggs?’

“I doubt it. They’ll probably go get breakfast together before Bull has to head into the office. It's their off-week Monday morning routine. They’ll probably be out in a few minutes.”

Sure enough, the two men shortly emerged from their bedroom, Bull dressed in a navy blue suit.

“You clean up nice,” said Cullen, looking impressed.

“Thanks,” said Bull. “This is my best eye patch.”

Dorian snorted. “Are you going to the impound lot later?” he asked Freya. She nodded. “Let me know what you find out. I’m going to go get breakfast with Bull and then go into the office with him. He had someone help him out with some computer stuff on a case a few months ago. We’re going to see if we still have contact information. Maybe they can be useful in decrypting those files.”

The two of them headed out, and Cullen slid neat piles of eggs onto a pair of plates while Freya buttered slices of toast.

“So how did Bull lose his eye, anyway?” he asked her.

“Knife fight,” she said, laying the toasted bread on the plates.

“Whoa, _really?”_

“No,” she said, grinning and shaking her head. Her smile faded quickly as she told him the real story. “Actually, he had a bad run-in with the police, not long after he moved here from Par Vollen. It's why he went into civil rights law. They’d stopped him in the Lowtown neighborhood, said he fit the description of someone who’d just robbed a liquor store. He was tased and they slammed him up against a chain-link fence. Part of the fence had come loose and it stuck him right in the eye.”

Cullen winced. “Holy Maker. That’s _awful.”_

“Yeah. And the Qunari they were looking for had braids down to his elbows and curly horns. It wasn’t even a close resemblance.”

“Well, that’s fucked up,” said Cullen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I can’t believe they’d make that mistake.”

“Oh, it happens all the time," she replied. "Elves, too. If you have horns or pointy ears, people think you’re basically interchangeable. Did you know that if you’re an elf or a Qunari, your odds of getting pulled over are something like 30% higher? Bull’s been stopped six times this year. And it’s only August. Somehow, though, they always let him go when he lets it slip he’s a civil rights lawyer."

She paused, looking pensive as she took a drink of her coffee.

"For some reason, dwarves don’t get the same treatment. Maybe because they were pumping out advanced technology while we were still wandering around the woods and living off the land. It seems not to have occurred to anyone that maybe we were just more interested in being good stewards of the earth than building huge castles or carving up the ground for oil. People seem to think we’re just naturally less intelligent than the other races.”

“I can’t see anyone looking at what _you_ do and thinking you’re less intelligent than a human or a dwarf,” said Cullen, frowning. She let out a derisive snort.

“You have no idea how often it happens,” she told him. “I actually have people refuse treatment from me sometimes. They’ll be sitting there on a stretcher, bleeding out, screaming that they want ‘a _human_ doctor’ instead.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head.

“That’s the United States of Thedas,” she replied with a shrug. “Racism is alive and well. You just don’t tend to notice it until you’re on the wrong end of it. Unfortunately, Bull’s caseload is _always_ full.”

She sprinkled salt and pepper over her eggs and took a bite. Cullen watched her chewing.

“Is it terrible?” he asked, looking worried. She shook her head emphatically.

“No, these are _great,”_ she said, looking up. “The onion is a nice touch. And it was nearing the end of its shelf life, so I’m glad it got used. Thank you for making breakfast.”

Cullen looked pleased as he lifted his toast. “You helped,” he said. He crunched into it. It was a hearty, grainy bread, probably the sprouted variety you’d find in the health food section for six dollars a loaf. He grinned to himself. Dorian had been kind of right about the hippie thing.

“All I did was put bread into the toaster,” Freya said with a shrug. She pulled her phone out of a back pocket. “I'm going to give Blackwall a call. He should be heading into the shop soon. I'll let him know we’re just eating something real quick, and then we can come pick him up whenever he’s ready.”

An hour later, Freya and Cullen pulled into the lot of a large garage with “Ranier Automotive Restoration” in large letters above the door. A burly, middle-aged man with a long black beard and hair was leaning against the wall next to a large toolbox and a mechanic’s creeper. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, and large tattooed biceps peeked out from under the sleeves of his shirt. A patch on his chest read “Blackwall” in cursive letters.

Leaving the truck running, Freya hopped down and approached him with a broad smile, which the bearded man returned. Cullen got out of the truck and followed.

“Hey, kid,” Blackwall said. He opened his arms as she walked up to him. “Get a hug before I’m covered in grease.”

The two embraced, and he clapped her firmly on the back in a friendly way.

“I take it this is your new friend?” he asked as they broke away, gesturing toward Cullen.

“Yes, this is Cullen Rutherford.”

Cullen stuck his hand out and smiled pleasantly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rainier,” he said.

Blackwall took his hand and shook it, laughing.

“‘Mister Rainier.’ That’s rich. Call me Blackwell, soldier. Everyone does.”

He picked up the toolbox next to his feet, swinging it over his shoulder with a loud series of clanks. Cullen grabbed the creeper and followed Blackwall to the Bronco.

Once everyone was settled in and buckled, Freya turned back out onto the street, headed for the impound lot.

“Can I ask you a question?” Cullen asked, looking back over the seat at Blackwall.

“Sure.”

“Why ‘Blackwall?’”

“Tires,” he replied.

“...Tires?” asked Cullen, arching an eyebrow.

“You’ve heard of whitewall tires?” asked Blackwall. “Those ones you see on a lot of vintage cars?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t stand them. All they do is get splattered in road grime, and then they look like shit. So I don't stock them, and I put blackwall tires in all my restorations.”

There was a short pause.

“...That’s it?” asked Cullen, looking a little disappointed.

“Nobody said it was an interesting story,” said Blackwall with a shrug. Freya chuckled from the driver’s seat.  “Now run me through what happened during this accident, soldier,” he said, leaning forward.

“Well, it’s kind of a blur, to be honest,” Cullen replied. “I was driving along like normal and I went to make a turn. Somehow, I lost control during the turn, so I hit the brakes. Next thing I knew, my car was wrapped around a tree. Thankfully there was nobody else in the intersection.”

Blackwall was pursing his lips.  “Hmmm,” he said. “What kind of car?”

“It’s a CR-V, few years old.”

“Huh. Well, we’ll get under and take a look, see if anything was tampered with.”

 

They pulled into the impound lot a few minutes later, and Cullen went to the desk to retrieve his keys. An employee escorted them to the car, and sure enough, there was a huge indentation at the front where it had struck the tree. The shiny red paint was scratched down to primer where it had smashed and crumpled against the tree trunk. The windshield was shattered, and as they came around to the driver’s seat, Freya could see dried blood on the steering wheel.

“Cullen,” she breathed, looking a little pale, “do you have any idea how lucky you are not to be in a full body cast right now?”

“Or dead,” he said quietly, wrenching the door open with a crunching noise.

He leaned in across the seat, careful to avoid the broken glass littering everything. Blackwall had already grabbed a flashlight out of his bag and was on his back on the creeper, sliding underneath the front of the car. Freya began walking around, snapping photos of the damage with her cell phone.

Cullen rummaged in the glove compartment, pulling out his wallet and a black phone in a heavy duty rubberized case. Freya had handed him a reusable grocery bag from the Bronco, and he began piling things into it as he worked. He had just finished throwing his insurance information and a car charger for his phone into the bag when a loud exclamation issued from underneath the car.

Blackwall slid forward, a small flashlight in his mouth. Taking it out so he could talk, he gestured at Freya. “Give me your phone for a sec.”

She handed him the phone, and they saw him disappear again, muttering swears as several flashes went off underneath the car. Sliding back out, he hoisted himself off the ground and flipped through the photos with Freya and Cullen.

“This is your tie rod,” he said, pointing at a long metal rod that had snapped in two. “It’s part of the mechanism that controls your steering. When you turn the steering wheel, this is the thing that makes your tires obey it.”

“It’s broken,” said Freya, frowning.

Blackwall pointed to a few shiny gouges in the dull metal on one side of the section where it had snapped.

“Those are saw marks. I’d bet my _life_ on it. Someone cut almost all the way through it so that when you turned, it would break the rest of the way.”

He flipped to the next set of photos.

“Those are my brake lines,” said Cullen, his eyes wide.

“And they were cut,” said Blackwell, nodding. “Someone wanted you to wreck this car, and they made _damn sure_ you’d do so.”

The phone in Blackwell’s hand suddenly cut to a black screen with a ringing phone icon, and the words “Kirkwall Memorial” appeared at the top.

“Hospital’s calling,” she said. “I’d better take this.”

She walked off a few feet away and answered, putting her phone to her ear.

Cullen shook his head, looking at his wrecked car and trying to absorb what Blackwall had just told him. If Lobo had been the one to steal the drive, why set him up for an accident? He may have wanted the information Cullen had collected, but trying to _kill_ him? Could Samson have been this hell-bent on getting him permanently out of his hair? And Maker, what if someone _else_ had been around when he lost control? Who would put other lives at risk like this?

He looked up to see Freya walking back over to him, a look of concern etched on her features.

“That was our hospital administrator,” she said to Cullen. “I’ve been asked to come in right away to talk to her. Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” he said, looking in the bag and then back up at Blackwall. “We have photos of everything down there that you saw?”

Blackwall nodded solemnly, tossing his flashlight back in his tool bag.

“I’ll drop you off at the apartment,” said Freya. “I have a feeling this is going to involve you, and I don’t want you anywhere on the premises if something happens.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fiona Lee’s office was on the third floor of Kirkwall Memorial. As administrators went, Freya supposed she wasn’t terrible. She was an elf, and she had been responsible for increasing the hospital’s employment of non-humans by nearly double since Freya had come on. But the hospital, as Lee was quick to remind people, was a business, and she had to answer to a board of directors who sometimes seemed to forget that their patients’ health was supposed to be top priority.

Freya felt her stomach give a lurch as she knocked on her door. She heard Fiona’s voice call softly for her to come in, and she walked in to find her alone behind her desk.

She smiled warmly at Freya, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk.

“Good morning, Dr. Lavellan,” she said. “Thank you for coming on short notice. I’m sorry to interrupt your day off like this, but I wouldn’t have cut into your free time unless it was important.” 

Freya sat. “Of course not,” she said. “What can I do for you, Fiona?”

“I received a visit from a representative of the Marine Corps today,” she said, looking grave. “They are very concerned about an incident on Saturday night involving a former soldier. A Templar, it would seem.” 

“Yes,” said Freya, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs. “I treated him following a vehicle collision.” 

“The concern expressed by the Marines--” explained Fiona, and she paused. Freya thought she looked like she was trying to choose her words carefully. “They seem to be under the impression that he was no longer taking his lyrium, and operating a vehicle without it. However, I pulled his information up in the computer, and there were no notes made about possible lyrium withdrawal, nor were the required laboratory tests requested to determine whether that was true.”

“That’s accurate,” said Freya, shrugging. “My diagnosis is in the chart.”

“Yes,” said Fiona, with a nod. “Suspected influenza. I conferred with several other physicians about the symptoms, _without_ telling them the patient was a Templar. They agreed with your diagnosis. Were _you_ aware that Mr. Rutherford was a Templar?”

“I was,” answered Freya truthfully. “He was wearing dog tags.”

“But the idea of it being lyrium withdrawal didn’t cross your mind." 

“I suppose not,” Freya said, shrugging. “I made a mistake. I should have ordered a blood test.”

Fiona pursed her lips.

“I wonder if the Marines also told you that they assaulted me, and my patient as well?” Freya asked her. She crossed her arms over her chest. “A man named Colonel Samson compromised the patient's IV site, and one of his men grabbed me so hard he left bruises.”

She pulled the sleeve of her t-shirt up to reveal two dark fingerprint-sized marks on the inside of her arm. Fiona’s eyes widened.

“No,” she breathed. “They didn’t mention.” She met Freya's gaze, and Freya could see a shadow of fear in her expression.  

“Of course they didn’t,” said Freya, pulling her sleeve back down. “Why would they?”

Fiona took a deep breath.

“Freya, you’re one of my best critical care physicians. In fact, I think you’re one of our most promising young doctors, period. But in light of the circumstances, and for your own safety, I think it would be best for me to put you on administrative leave until this is all sorted out.”

Freya’s jaw dropped. “You’re taking me off my shift?” she asked, incredulous.

“It will be paid,” said Fiona. “I see no reason to keep you from collecting your salary. But we have to be shown to be in cooperation throughout the investigation, and the board has asked me to remove you from the roster until this is cleared up.”

“Fine,” said Freya, standing up and shaking her head. “If you think that’s best. But I don’t care about the pay. I can’t believe the hospital would want to take me off the roster when we’re already short-staffed. People need _all_ of us here, Fiona, and this job is my _life_.”

“I know it is, and I understand your anger,” replied Fiona, sounding apologetic. She dropped her voice until it was just above a whisper.

“I know how you feel about the Templar program, Freya,” she said, and Freya was surprised to hear a first name come out of her mouth. It was the first time she’d ever heard her call another person anything other than their title and surname, and the sudden show of familiarity was almost comforting. “I have the same reservations you do, as do many other people at this facility. You’re not alone. But this is a _very_ dangerous organization we are dealing with. The rumors about the power they have… well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. I’m doing this as much to keep you safe as to keep the hospital out of their cross-hairs. I want you to know that.”

Freya took a deep breath, nodding. “What about Dorian?” she asked. “Is he still going to be able to come in?”

“Mr. Pavus assisted you as he was directed to do. I see no reason to take him off the shift. We’ll expect to see him on Sunday evening as scheduled.”

Freya made as if she were about to leave.

“One other thing,” said Fiona, standing, “Around the time you were hired, the hospital was required to issue information to its physicians regarding Templar patients and the protocol for suspected lyrium withdrawal. Everyone was asked to sign a document stating they’d read it. It outlined the requirements for hospital staff, including mandated blood tests for anyone suspected of operating a vehicle without lyrium. Do you remember signing such a document?”

Freya nodded. “I do. I believe it was done along with all my new hire paperwork.”

“That’s very odd,” said Fiona, the corner of her mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Because the Marine Corps requested a copy of your signed form, and for the life of me, I can’t seem to find it  _anywhere_.”

Freya’s eyes widened slightly, and Fiona gave her the tiniest wink.

“Do try to keep yourself out of trouble while you’re gone, Dr. Lavellan.”


	6. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping an eye on you.  
> And with an eye on you,  
> it could drown me, too...
> 
> And although I step chaotically,  
> I swore an oath on my history.  
> It's a miracle I can see.
> 
> Even the darkness has arms,  
> but they ain't got you.  
> Baby, I have it.  
> And I have you, too.
> 
> \--The Barr Brothers, "Even The Darkness Has Arms"

Cullen and Dorian both looked up as the door to the loft opened. Freya walked in, throwing her keys in a bowl on an entry table with a sour look on her face.

“What happened?” asked Dorian, getting up from a chair at the dining table.

“Administrative leave,” she replied curtly. She walked at a brisk pace toward the door to her room. “Indefinitely, until this is all over.”

“Oh, Freya,” Cullen said, standing. “I’m so sorry. You have _no_ idea how bad I feel about this whole mess.”

She met his eyes, and through her anger he could see the sympathy written on her face.

“This isn’t your fault, Cullen,” she said. “I'm just... I need to clear my head. I’m going to go for a run.”

She re-emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, clad in running shorts and a sports bra. She sat on a dining room chair as she pulled her shoes on.

“Usual route,” she told Dorian, straightening and tucking a pair of headphones into her ears. “I’ll have my phone on me.”

“Be safe,” Dorian told her, watching her nod as she strode to the door again. She closed it a little harder than strictly necessary, and Dorian heaved a sigh.

 _“Shit,”_ he said, frowning. He glanced over at Cullen, who was sitting on the sofa looking despondent with his head cradled in his hand. Dorian walked up to him and nudged him on the shoulder. “C’mon, you. We’re going on a field trip.”

“Where to?” asked Cullen.

“Grocery store. New mission: Operation Cheer Freya Up.”

Cullen was quiet all the way down to the parking garage and still didn’t speak as they pulled out of the lot in Dorian’s little blue electric hybrid. He looked out the window as they drove out onto the street, a guilty expression on his face.

“She’ll be okay,” Dorian told him, glancing over.

“She just seems so upset,” said Cullen.

“Well, yes,” conceded Dorian. “She is.”

He leaned back in his seat, trying to put together the words to explain to Cullen what he thought Freya was probably wrestling with in her head.

“A job like ours...” he said, “You don’t get into that line of work unless you’re _really_ invested. Freya and I spend most of our nights up to our elbows in other peoples’ blood. We’re awake while the rest of the world sleeps. We don’t take breaks. We work through hunger and exhaustion and the emotional roller coaster that comes with being an emergency responder. We’re understaffed and underpaid. But we still show up, because it’s not just a paycheck for us. And when you do this kind of work, you can sort of lose sight of who you are. After Karena, Freya really threw herself into it, and sometimes I don’t think she knows what to do with herself when she’s not on shift.”

Cullen thought about his broken dog tags, still covered in blood splatters and stuffed in the bottom of his duffel bag back at the apartment.

“I think I might know a little about how that feels,” he said.

They pulled into the busy lot of a neighborhood market, and Dorian turned to him.

“It’s _really_ not your fault,” Dorian told him. “We knew what we were getting ourselves into. We wouldn’t still be helping you if we didn’t think it was worth it. She’ll feel better in a day or so. And honestly, she could probably use the break. Maker knows she won’t take one on her own. Now come on, we have a dinner to plan.”

By the time Freya came back from her run, there was a lovely, savory smell permeating the air of the loft. Sweat pouring over her chest and back, she crossed the loft toward the kitchen, her legs burning from the workout.

Dorian was taking a pan of fragrant, lightly-roasted pine nuts and garlic out of the oven, and Cullen was tearing basil leaves off their stems. Her eyes lit up.

“Are you making your pesto?” she asked Dorian. He nodded, carefully setting the hot pan on top of the stove, and Freya let out an excited squeak as she nearly bowled him over with her hug.

“You’re welcome,” he said, chuckling slightly as he patted her on the back. His hand came back damp. “Ugh, you’re covered in sweat, Freya. Go hose yourself off.”

“I thought you didn’t cook anything but eggs,” she said, turning to Cullen. He set the bundle of leaves on a cutting board and picked up a large chef’s knife, grinning.

“I don’t. Dorian’s giving me the easy jobs.”

“Which you’re performing admirably so far, I might add,” said Dorian in an approving sort of tone.

Cullen gave an exaggerated, flourishing bow, and he was pleased to see that Freya cracked a smile as he did. She walked over to where he was beginning to chop the basil, and he felt her plant a small peck on his cheek.

“Your efforts are appreciated,” she said, noticing with a small inward feeling of satisfaction that a slight flush was creeping over his skin. “Dorian’s pesto is my favorite.”

“So I’m told,” replied Cullen, unable to suppress a grin. He looked up at Freya with just his eyes as he sliced into the leaves. “Happy to help improve your evening.”

“I planned this whole thing, and _I_ didn’t get a kiss,” Dorian said, looking comically affronted.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “maybe you won’t reject my sweaty hugs next time.”

Cullen looked up to watch her turn and walk to her room to clean up, beads of perspiration shining on her lean, muscular shoulders. His eyes wandered down the curves of her waist to the two little dimples above her waistband.

“You’re pulverizing the basil,” said a voice behind him, jarring him out of his momentary fog, and he turned to see Dorian giving him a significant look as they heard the door to Freya’s bedroom click shut. Looking down, he saw that he had cut the leaves into a fine confetti, rather than into small strips as he’d been asked.

“Shit. Can you still use it?” asked Cullen.

“Yes," said Dorian, smirking, "but for future reference, when you’re holding a big, sharp knife, it’s best to keep your eyes on the food you’re chopping. You wouldn’t be the first person to lose a finger because he was distracted by a woman’s backside.”  

Cullen cleared his throat and ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“Duly noted,” he said, dumping the basil into a food processor and picking up another leafy stem.

Bull arrived home from the office half an hour later, just in time to sit down to dinner. A huge bowl of pesto-coated rotini sat in the middle of the table, and Dorian had also baked up a loaf of bread covered in garlic butter and spices. There was a wine glass at everyone’s place, each filled with bright, crisp Sauvignon Blanc. They passed the dishes around the table, serving themselves heaping portions.

Freya filled Bull in on the events of the day, including her required leave of absence, and he shook his head.

“Idiots,” he said. “They’ll get one shift in with only two doctors next week and Fiona will have a laundry list of complaints come Monday.”  
  
“Probably,” she agreed.

“Oh, hey,” Dorian said, looking up from his plate. “We never told you what we found out at the office. Krem and I did some digging through old cases while Bull was working, and I found the name of that bloke who helped him out before, you know, with the computer stuff. He decrypted some files Bull used as evidence in a case earlier this year. I couldn’t find a phone number, but his name is Cole. Didn't see a last name anywhere. Maybe he hasn't got one, like Madonna.”

Frowning, Freya chewed thoughtfully.

“Cole... That name sounds familiar,” she said after a moment. “I think maybe I know a Cole. But I can’t place where I know him _from_.”

“Well,” Bull told her, “if you think of where you’ve heard of him, that would be our only lead on how to contact him. For some reason, I don’t have any notes on where we found him or how to get in touch. Have to ask Krem what that’s about tomorrow.”

“Who’s Krem?” asked Cullen, taking a swig of his wine.

“He’s my right-hand man at the office,” explained Bull. “Short for Cremisius, so you can see why he goes by Krem. He does a lot of my admin work, and some paralegal stuff. He’s in law school right now, hoping to become a full partner once he graduates. Smart kid.”

They finished their dinner together, savoring Dorian’s delicious cooking and showering him with compliments. When everyone had eaten their fill, Freya offered to do the dishes.

“I’ll help,” Cullen offered, jumping up from his seat, and Bull and Dorian exchanged a subtle look, grinning at each other. They retreated to their room and left Freya and Cullen alone in the kitchen, packing up leftovers and rinsing the dishes and cooking pots.

“How was your run?” Cullen asked, accepting plates from Freya and loading them into the dishwasher.

“Hot,” she replied. “But helpful. I needed to get out of my own head.”

“I can understand that,” Cullen said. “On base, we had a pretty nice gym. I used to go take out my frustrations on the heavy bag a lot. Wouldn’t mind having a pair of boxing gloves and a bag right now, to be honest. I could pretend it was Samson’s smug face.”

Freya grinned and reached for a scrub brush on the back of the sink, and Cullen froze, noticing her bruises for the first time.

“Freya,” he said, “your arm.”

She straightened her elbow, looking at the dark fingerprints hear her armpit.

“Oh,” she replied. “Yeah… It looks worse than it feels, though.”

“I didn’t realize he’d hurt you that badly.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” she said, grabbing the scrub brush. Cullen gently put a hand on her wrist, and she stopped, looking up at him.

“It’s a big deal to _me_ _,_ Freya.”

His voice faltered a little on her name. She turned toward him and watched as he took a deep breath, clenching his jaw. Anger was etched into his features.

“I imagine this is all probably pretty scary,” he said. “I know you’re feeling shaken, and you’re upset about your job. And none of it would be happening if I hadn’t dragged you into this. I _hate_ that, more than I can explain. But I’m promising you right now, I _won’t_ let them hurt you again.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Cullen," she told him gently.

“I know you’re not,” he replied. “Far from it. If anything, _you’ve_ rescued _me._ But these men, the things they’re willing to do… Freya, I can’t _stand_ the thought of anything happening to you.”

She held his gaze, feeling him run his thumb gently over the soft skin of her wrist.

“We’re both going watch out for _each other,"_ she said. "How’s that sound?”

Cullen nodded, managing a small smile. “I think can live with that,” he told her.

He watched her as she resumed scrubbing, his eyes lingering briefly on the dark bruises as she moved the brush back and forth through the suds in the pot she was cleaning. He felt overwhelmed by guilt and his need to protect her. And there was another feeling in there, too, one he was increasingly less able to ignore--an affection much stronger than he would have expected for someone he’d only met a couple of days ago. He wondered to himself if it was just a product of his desperate desire for some kind of connection with another person, a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself to have since the days before Kinloch.

Freya handed him the pot, rousing him from his thoughts, and he took it automatically, standing there looking at it with a confused expression as he dripped water on the rug in front of the sink. A dull ache was starting to permeate his muscles, and his brain felt fuzzy.

“You can set it in the dish drainer,” Freya said, pointing to the metal rack on the counter next to him. “I hand-washed it. It can just air dry.”

She watched him put the pot in the rack.

“Are you okay, Cullen?” she asked, looking concerned. “You’re kind of on another planet all of a sudden.”

“I’m okay,” he told her, not sure himself what was coming over him. “I’m just a little sore. Probably from the accident.”

“Let me finish up here,” she said. “Why don’t you go lay down? Some extra rest tonight wouldn’t hurt. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen in a sec.”

He nodded, turning to head to the sofa.

By the time she came over to check on him several minutes later, he had already fallen fast asleep. She watched him for a moment, then picked his blanket up off the pile of his belongings in the corner of the living room. Laying it over him, she smoothed his hair gently.

“Good night, Cullen.”

 

* * *

 

A strange noise roused Freya from her sleep several hours later. She looked blearily at the time on her alarm clock, the bright blue numbers swimming gradually into focus. It was just after one in the morning.

She rubbed her eyes, listening. The distinct sound of someone retching reached her ears, and she sat up with a frown. Pulling the sheets off herself, she got out of bed and opened a drawer in her dresser, grabbing an oversized sweatshirt and throwing it on over her bare chest. She opened her bedroom door and walked the few steps toward the hall bathroom where light peeked out through the crack above the floor.

More retching. A glance at the couch confirmed her suspicions, and she knocked softly on the door.

“Cullen?" she called quietly. "It’s me.”

“Don’t come in,” he answered back in a choked voice. “I’m getting sick.”

“I know you are,” she said. “I’m a doctor. You wouldn’t be the first person to throw up in front of me.”

There was a long pause. 

“Let me help, Cullen. Please?”

There was another pause, shorter this time, and then the knob turned, and the door cracked open. Freya nudged it further. Blinking against the bright light of the bathroom, she saw Cullen hunched over the toilet in a pair of dark grey sweat pants. Perspiration dripped down his bare back as his stomach lurched again, his muscles all tensing up visibly with the effort as more sick splashed into the toilet.

She reached above him and got a washcloth down from a shelf, wetting it with cool water from the faucet. He sat up, chest heaving, and she draped the cloth over his neck.

“Do you think you can make it to my bathroom?” Freya asked softly. “That way we don’t wake Bull and Dorian up?”

Cullen nodded, and Freya helped him stand. His legs shook underneath him, and he leaned against the sink for support. She flushed the toilet and put the seat down, then led him slowly across to her room, closing her door behind them.

As soon as they made it to her bathroom, he sat down in front of her toilet, hunching over again as another heave wracked his body. Freya rummaged around in a drawer next to him at the sink, coming up after a moment with a blister pack of some kind of pills. The neckline of the sweatshirt she was wearing was a wide, raw-edged boatneck, and it fell off her shoulder as she tore open the package. Annoyed, she pulled the fabric back up over her collarbone, suddenly wishing she’d grabbed any other shirt out of that drawer.

Cullen leaned back from the toilet, wiping his brow. Nothing was coming up now. He had apparently emptied his stomach.

“Think you’ve got a break for a minute?” Freya asked. He nodded, and she handed him a tiny pink tablet. “Let that melt on your tongue.” 

“What is it?” he asked weakly, taking it from her and putting it into his mouth. It had a very artificial-tasting berry flavor, and it dissolved quickly into grit. 

“Zofran,” she explained. “It’s the stuff they give chemo patients for vomiting. Bull and Dorian both came down with a horrible stomach bug last spring, so I prescribed it for them, and there was a bunch left over. It’ll absorb right through your cheeks and gums, so it won’t take long to take effect.” 

She took the cloth off his neck and wet it again with cool water, wringing it out. Kneeling down next to him, she drew it slowly over his skin, wiping off his brow and temples, then bringing it across his neck. He closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” she replied, running the cloth over his bare chest. “This is kind of my job.”

“You’re supposed to be off the clock.”

“I’m never off the clock for people I care about, Cullen.”

He opened his eyes and met her gaze for a brief moment, then watched as she stood and draped the washcloth over the faucet. She opened her medicine cabinet above the sink and reached up, looking around for something. The hem of her sweatshirt lifted as she raised her arms, exposing a pair of dark blue underwear. He caught a glimpse of the curves of her pale buttocks peeking out on either side, and he looked quickly away.

She brought down a digital thermometer. It beeped as she turned it on, and she swiped it along his forehead in a smooth motion. It gave another series of beeps, the screen flashing red behind the numbers on the display. 

“You’re febrile again. A hundred and three, plus change. As soon as you can hold it down, we should get some more ibuprofen in you.”

Cullen nodded.

“Would you…” Freya trailed off for a moment as she looked back toward her bed. “Would you like to lay down in here tonight?” 

“Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?” he asked her. The thought of cool sheets against his skin sounded heavenly, but he hadn’t missed the hesitation in her voice. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” she said. Her stomach squirmed nervously. “But if you’d rather go back to the sofa, that’s okay. I can help you back out to the living room. I’d just like to keep an eye on you, make sure your fever goes down and everything. I haven’t dealt too much with lyrium withdrawal, so I don’t claim to be an expert or anything, but I can at least keep you comfortable and make sure you’re doing okay.”

She was rambling now, fidgeting with the thermometer as she talked, avoiding his gaze.

“Actually, I’d like the company,” he replied. “And a bed sounds like a nice change. 

She looked up, her heart giving an anticipatory flutter. Nodding, she set the thermometer on the counter.

“Up you get, then,” she said softly, helping him stand. She guided him to the bed and pulled the sheets back. He sank into the mattress on his back with a contented sigh, his body shaking slightly. Freya walked back into the bathroom and emerged a moment later with a glass of water and another large white pill. The bulb above the sink cast a wide yellow stripe of light into the bedroom, illuminating everything dimly. 

“How’s the stomach?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Starting to feel better,” he said. “I think I can hold it down.”

She helped him into a sitting position long enough to swallow the pill, then eased him back down. He rested his head gratefully against the cool pillow. 

Freya crawled into the bed on the other side, lying down with her head propped up on one hand.

“You know,” he said in a quiet voice, “as much as I wish we’d met under different circumstances… I’m glad I ended up in your exam room.”

Her heart gave an immense swoop inside her chest, and she was glad the lights were dim as she felt a warm blush coloring her cheeks.

“Me too,” she said, unable to keep her lips from curling into a small smile. He turned to her, letting his eyes wander over the backlit curves of her bare shoulder where the neckline of her shirt had slipped again. She could feel his body trembling across the mattress as the shakes intensified, and an increasingly strong urge to move closer and comfort him was tugging at her.

Pushing her hesitations aside, she scooted right up next to him, pulling the sheets up over their waists and laying her head on his shoulder. He looked down in surprise, her hair tickling against his stubbled jaw. Her cheek was warm and soft against his bare skin. She draped her arm over him, and he felt her hand come to rest on his broad chest. 

“Is this... okay?” she asked. He could feel her heart pounding through her sweatshirt against him. He smiled to himself as he wrapped his arm around her. Brushing a wave of red hair out of her face, he felt his trembling muscles quiet just a little in her embrace.

  
“It’s perfect, Freya.”


	7. Connections

Cullen woke up the next morning with a tingling arm and a full bladder. He opened his eyes and blinked against the bright morning light coming in through the windows in Freya’s room. Looking down, he saw that she was still sleeping soundly on his shoulder, appearing not to have moved a muscle since she’d curled against him the night before. He smiled into her hair as he gently nudged her.

“Freya,” he said in a soft voice. “Hey, wake up. It’s morning.”

She let out a low groan and nuzzled into his neck. “So what?” she asked in a muffled voice.

He grinned.

“So I have to pee so bad my teeth are floating, and you've put my arm to sleep,” he told her.

“Gosh, that sounds awful,” she mumbled. “I wish I could help you with that.”

“Freya, I haven’t wet the bed since I was four years old. Please don’t break my winning streak.”

She looked up at him, propping herself up on her forearms across his chest. Her sleepy eyes looked especially green in the light from the windows, and one of her cheeks was a bright, rosy pink where it had lain against his skin all night. Her hair was a halo of red chaos around her head, and she blew an errant strand off her forehead with a puff of breath.

“Fine,” she said with a grumpy look on her face. “You’re free to go.”

“Maker,” he said, grinning. _“You_ are a thing to behold in the morning.”

She made a rude hand gesture at him, and he laughed, reaching out to brush her cheek with his hand. She smiled back at him, and they sat there looking at each other for a moment.

“You woke me up from a cozy sleep because you were in a hurry to pee,” she said after a pause. “And now you’re just sitting here staring at me.”

“Well,” he replied quietly, “can you blame me? The view is nice.”

Freya smirked and sat up in the bed, stretching as Cullen begrudgingly got up.

“Use the hall bathroom, will you?” she asked. “I have to pee, too, now that I'm awake.”

He nodded and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Looking up, he saw that Dorian was sitting at the dining table with a mug of coffee, giving him a significant look.

“Good morning,” Cullen said in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone, scratching the back of his hair.

“Mmmm _hmmmmm,”_ Dorian replied, leaning heavily on the second syllable. He watched as Cullen turned and trudged to the bathroom door with a poorly disguised smile. Freya emerged from her room a few minutes later, having changed into a very battered pair of well-loved jeans and a tank top. She pulled her hair up into a messy knot as she walked toward the kitchen, avoiding her friend’s gaze.

Pouring herself a mug of coffee, she leaned a hip against the kitchen island, pretending to study her plant watering schedule.

“Are we just not going to talk about it?” asked Dorian, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Talk about what?” asked Freya, adopting an innocent demeanor.

“Uh, the big, fat bronto in the room?”

She rolled her eyes. Walking over to the table, she sat in the chair nearest him and lowered her voice.

“There’s nothing to talk about," she told him. "Yes, he slept with me. Literally just _slept._ He was having a bad bout of withdrawal and I had him come into my bathroom so he wouldn’t keep you guys up. I wanted to make sure he was okay, so I sort of… invited him into my bed.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow at her.

“So he puked for half the night--yes, we heard him--and then you guys just… snuggled up together like two bugs in a rug until morning?”

“Um… yeah, actually,” said Freya with a shrug. “That about sums it up.”

“The romance,” he replied sarcastically, “how do you _stand_ it?”

“You should talk,” she snorted. “You met Bull on Grindr.”

Dorian opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again. “Fair point, actually,” he conceded after a pause.

She stuck her tongue out playfully at him as Cullen came out of the bathroom again. He shot her a glance and tried to conceal a grin as he crossed to his duffel bag and pulled out a t-shirt, tugging it over his head.

“How’s Orlesian toast sound?” asked Freya, getting up from the table.

“It sounds delicious,” Cullen replied, putting a hand on his growling stomach.

“Good. I’ll let you crack the eggs, since they’re your specialty.”

Bull emerged from his bedroom shortly, suit jacket slung over one shoulder. Walking him to the door, Dorian straightened his tie and gave him a light kiss on the lips. Bull looked over Dorian’s head at Freya and Cullen, who were standing shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen counter, talking and laughing as they prepared breakfast.

“Bet you they’re fucking by Saturday,” he said in a hushed voice, smirking.

“Oh, definitely,” Dorian replied, turning toward the kitchen to watch them. “I could’ve told you that the night they _met.”_  


Sitting at the table half an hour later, Freya passed a towering platter of fried Orlesian toast slices around and then set it down, stabbing a couple of slices onto her own fork and transferring them to her plate.

“So, any brain waves on the Cole situation?” Dorian asked, drowning his toast in butter and maple syrup.

“No, and it’s driving me nuts,” she said. She drizzled golden syrup over her own plate lightly and then cut into her bread, furrowing her brow. “It’s like it’s right on the edge of my brain, but I can’t quite grab it.” She looked up at Cullen. “Have you attempted to reach this Lobo person since your accident?”

He nodded. “I sent him a message as soon as I got my phone back yesterday. No response. He’s ghosted, I’d bet money on it. Especially if he's got that flash drive.”

He reached up and absently scratched his upper arm, dragging his nails across his Templar tattoo. For some reason, it occasionally itched in the morning, the black outline raising like an embossed relief against the rest of his skin.

“You know,” said Dorian, eyeing the tattoo, “if you ever wanted to get that thing covered, I bet Freya’s friend Sera could come up with something. She’s very talented.”

Freya’s head snapped up from her plate, her eyes wide.

“Sera!” she said, looking from Dorian to Cullen. _“That’s_ where I know Cole! He’s a friend of hers. Or a client, one of the two. Either way, it was Sera who told me she knew a hacker for hire, and I was the one who suggested that Bull contact him for his case.”

“Well,” Dorian replied, looking pleased, “I guess we’re paying a visit to the tattoo shop today, eh kids?”

 

* * *

 

Sera's studio, Stinger Ink, was probably the most incongruously situated business Cullen had ever seen. The surrounding storefronts in the strip mall where it was located seemed to be all high end, pastel-colored boutiques of a certain description. On one side of the tattoo parlor was a baby couture store where the outfits visible in the window probably cost more than most suits he’d owned, and on the other was an artisinal import shop boasting fresh cheeses and sweets brought in daily from all over Thedas, likely with the high price tags to prove it.

And there, smack in the middle of it, was a jet black facade with a bright yellow interior visible through the plate glass. Sera's logo was painted above the door in large, swooping letters, complete with a large, angry looking cartoon bee that had shiny black ink dripping from its sting.

Dorian pulled the door open, and a bell rang merrily as the three of them walked in. The loud hum of a tattoo gun reached their ears, and a very modified young dwarf with purple hair looked over as they entered.

“Hi, Freya!” she said brightly, her face lighting up. Cullen tried to count the silver rings in one of her ears, but lost track after ten.

“Hey, Pixie,” replied Freya with a grin. “Is Sera in?”

“Yeah, that’s her buzzing in the back. She’s finishing up with a client, should be out soon. Are you coming in for some more work?”

“No, not today,” Freya said. “Just wanted to ask her about something.”

“Who’s your friend?” Pixie asked, glancing at Cullen.

“Oh, sorry. This is Cullen Rutherford. Cullen, this is Sera’s girlfriend, Pixie.”

Cullen accepted a handshake from the dwarf, noticing the shapely legs of a pinup girl tattoo peeking out from under her sleeve.

“Pleasure,” he said, smiling at her. 

A loud ding from the bowels of the shop sounded, and Pixie looked over her shoulder.

“That’s the autoclave,” she said brightly. “I should go empty it and put in another load of stuff. You guys just make yourselves at home and Sera’ll be out soon.”

She turned and bounced toward a door at the back, and Cullen walked over to where Dorian was inspecting a wall full of flash art.

He eyed the designs, everything from mermaids to fire-breathing dragons. One piece caught his eye, a stylized lion’s head caught mid-roar. It wasn’t quite his style, but something about the motif appealed to him. He glanced down at his arm, lifting his sleeve. Dorian might have a point about getting his Marine tattoo covered someday.

“Remember, keep that wrap on a few hours, and don’t touch without washing your mitts first, yeah? Here’s a list of instructions. Follow them, or else don’t come to me when your arm’s come off.”

An elf with short, choppy blonde hair and a button nose had emerged from a doorway in the hall that led to the back of the shop, ushering out a squat, stocky man with a shiny piece of what looked like cling wrap stuck to his forearm over a heavily flourished piece of script. The elf was wearing loud yellow leggings in a tartan pattern under an artfully ripped, oversized black t-shirt advertising a band called “Elven Glory.” She rolled her eyes at the man behind his back as he left, tinkling the bell above the door again. Turning to Freya, she put a heavily tattooed hand on her hip, looking annoyed.

“Idjit gets his lady-friend’s name inked on his arm, even though I told him it was a rubbish idea. But his money’s green, so I did it. Bet they’re split within a year. Didn’t tip, either. Nutsack. Anyway. Hi, you!” 

Freya chuckled and waved at her friend.

“Who’s the beefcake?” Sera asked. Dorian turned around with a smirk.

“Don't be silly, Sera. You know who I am.”

Sera rolled her eyes, and Freya laughed.

“Cullen, meet Sera. Sera, this is Cullen Rutherford,” she said, gesturing between the two. Cullen gave her a small nod.

“Saw you eyeballing that lion,” Sera said, gesturing toward the wall where he’d been perusing designs. “You interested in some ink? That flash is mostly shite, but people eat it up. I could do you a really nice custom one, though, if big kitties are your thing.”

“Perhaps another time,” he answered, smiling politely. “Freya and I were actually hoping you could give us some information on a connection of yours.”

Sera looked back at Freya, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah?” she asked. “Who’s that?”

“Cole?” answered Freya, leaning against the corner of the front counter.

“Ah,” Sera said, nodding. “Right. Got another computer job?”

“Of sorts,” said Freya cryptically. 

“Well, you know he doesn’t talk to just anyone. I’ll have to get a message to him with your number and he’ll call you if he’s up for it.”

“We’d really appreciate it,” said Cullen, rubbing at his arm again. Sera eyed the Templar tattoo as he did.

“You’re not gonna get him involved in anything dodgy, yeah?” she asked, turning back to Freya with a concerned expression.

“We’ll be very transparent about what we’re asking him to do,” Freya told her. “And if he wants to walk away, he can. No questions asked.”

Sera nodded again.

“Right. Just so he knows what he’s getting into and all.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I’ll get your info to him in the next day or so. Same number as before?" 

“Yep, hasn’t changed.”

“Alrighty then," said Sera, scribbling herself a note on a piece of paper behind the counter. "I’ll pass the word on. Oy, Dorian! When are you going to brave up and let me do some decorations on you?”

Dorian put a hand to his chest.

“Me?” he asked, his mustache curling upward at the corners as he grinned. “Oh, I would never mar the Maker’s perfect creation. My virgin skin is staying unblemished, thank you.”

“So my art is a _‘blemish,’_ now, is it?” she asked, a note of challenge in her voice.

“Sera, dear, you know I think you’re immensely talented. I just prefer to remain a blank canvas.”

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes and turning to head back to the room she’d come out of. “Send your big, horny boyfriend back here soon, though, will you? At least he tips.”


	8. Forward Progress

The blue-white light of Freya’s laptop screen reflected in her eyes as she sat with her hands hovering over the keyboard, an irritated look on her face.

It was late in the evening, and she was sitting on the couch with her bare feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table. Dorian had slung his long legs over the arm of the recliner on one side of her, absorbed in a cooking show on television. Cullen was only half-watching it, his mind wandering off frequently as he wrestled with his tangled thoughts: Freya, the lyrium, Samson, his totaled car, Freya, Lobo, the stolen flash drive… more Freya.

He kept shooting her glances, but she was absorbed in whatever she was doing, completely ignoring the attractive, foul-mouthed chef on the huge TV screen who was presently barking at the owner of a restaurant he was apparently trying to rescue from bankruptcy.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Freya said in a quiet voice, tipping her head back and rubbing her eyes with her fingers.

“Ugh, I _know_ ,” said Dorian, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s trying to save their bistro and they aren’t even _listening_ to him. Why ask for advice if you’re not going to take it? The man has like a dozen Michelin stars, for crying out loud.”

Freya and Cullen both looked over at him with arched eyebrows.

“I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about your show,” said Cullen, smirking.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not. I’m talking about lyrium.”

“Come again?” asked Dorian, picking up the remote control and hitting the pause button. High-definition spittle was frozen in mid-spray on the screen as it flew from the angry chef's mouth, which had been cursing loudly.

 _“Lyrium,”_ Freya repeated, gesturing at the computer screen. “I’ve been looking at every resource I can think of to try to find out the mechanism of action, the chemical formula--literally _anything._ And it’s like the information just doesn’t exist.”

“Mechanism of action?” asked Cullen.

“What makes it work inside your body. For most drugs, we know why they’re effective, or we can at least make an educated guess. So, like, that Zofran I gave you last night. We know that works because it specifically inhibits certain serotonin receptors in your body that trigger vomiting. But I can’t seem to dig up any information on lyrium’s pharmacology at _all._ I can’t find the reason _why_ it increases your strength, or decreases your inhibitions. I can’t find out what elements make it up. _Nothing.”_

“Is it important to know those things?”

“It is,” Dorian interjected. “It could explain why your withdrawal symptoms are occurring, what else we might expect, how to treat them. Not to mention what side effects it might have on you later in life.”

“Exactly,” said Freya, nodding. “I mean, the Templar program is only a few years old. How much testing could they possibly have done on this stuff?”

“Could it be protected as proprietary information by whoever developed it?” Cullen asked, frowning.

“Well,” she replied, “ordinarily, no. Drug companies can patent their formulas so nobody else can copy and sell them, but they aren’t supposed to be able to keep this kind of information to themselves. As a physician, I need access to this stuff so that I know what I’m up against if one of my patients is on this medication. I wonder how they’re getting away with this. The FDA should be throwing a _fit,_ but I haven’t heard anything about it at all.”

Cullen got up from his seat next to her and leaned over to his duffel bag, reaching into one of the zippered pockets on the side. Straightening back up, he held out a small prescription bottle full of large, oblong blue pills.

“If you had a sample, is that something that could be analyzed?” he asked. He passed the bottle to her.

“Possibly,” she said, looking at it. “But we’d have to be able to find someone who could do something like that. I’m surprised you kept these, Cullen.”

“Well,” he said, “I wasn’t really sure what to _do_ with them. I have no idea how to safely dispose of it. Nobody ever gave us instructions on that, because we weren’t ever supposed to have any left over. We certainly weren’t supposed to stop _taking_ them.”

She handed him back the bottle, and he squinted at the prescription printed on it. Reaching back into his bag, he pulled out a small oval-shaped case and opened it, then slipped a pair of glasses onto his nose.

Freya clearly approved of this addition, if her expression was any indication. Dorian concealed a grin, thinking to himself that she looked about two seconds away from leaping over the table and pouncing on Cullen right there in front of him.

“Two hundred twenty-five milligrams per tablet. Take one tablet once a day with food. Blah blah blah.” There was a small line at the bottom, and he held the bottle up close to his eyes, turning it so that the light from the television illuminated the label. “Manufactured by Isana Pharmaceuticals, Inc.”

He looked up at Freya, and she tapped her fingers quickly over the keys of her laptop.

“Well, they have a website,” she said. Dorian got up and came around to the back of the couch to look over her shoulder, and Cullen returned to his seat next to her, taking the glasses back off again so he could read the screen. Freya ran her fingers over the trackpad on her computer, scrolling down the homepage of the site.

“Looks like it’s just a gigantic lyrium advertisement, with a little pro-Templar propaganda thrown in for flavor,” Dorian said. “It doesn’t even seem like they make any other medications.”

“That’s weird,” Freya said with a frown. “Most drug companies make a lot of different products.”

She clicked on a menu link labeled “About Isana,” and a new page opened featuring a photo of a large white building with the company name in large cornflower-blue letters on the side.

“Largest dwarf-owned company in Thedas,” read Cullen, scanning the page. “Prestigious military contracts... _Prestigious._ Sure, if you’re okay with making slaves out of innocent soldiers…. Huh. They’re located near Orzammar. Interesting.”

“None of this tells us anything, though,” Freya said, leaning her head on her palm. “Dorian’s right, it’s just a billboard for their product. I don’t know anything more about lyrium itself than I did ten minutes ago.”

“Well, we know who makes it. That’s a start, right?”

“Maybe,” she replied, the frustration obvious in her voice. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve just been spinning our wheels for the past couple days without getting anywhere.”

She shut the laptop and set it down on the table, then crossed the room to her bedroom door and walked through it. Cullen looked at Dorian, who gave him a shrug and flopped down into the recliner again, resuming his program. Emerging again a moment later, Freya grabbed a few beers from the refrigerator and tucked them into a bag slung over her shoulder. She nudged Cullen.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said. “I need to blow off some steam.”

 

* * *

 

  

Stark shadows stretched in the yellow light of the streetlamps as Freya and Cullen strode at a brisk pace along the sidewalk several blocks from the apartment. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, looking over at her.

“Where are we going, exactly?” he asked.

“You’ll see.” 

She turned the corner and he saw a large brick building with a sign out front that identified it as Kirkwall Central High School.

Freya crossed the parking lot toward the back of the school, heading toward a fenced in track that surrounded a large grass practice field. A few small lights at the perimeter of the track illuminated the area.

“Are we allowed to be in here?” Cullen asked as they walked through the gate.

“There’s no lock,” she said, shrugging. “I come here to run sprints sometimes. Nobody seems to care as long as it’s not during school hours.”

Climbing up a few steps onto the bleachers, Freya took a seat and rested one foot against the metal bench in front of her. Cullen sat next to her, accepting the beer she handed him.

“Now, I know _that’s_ not allowed.”

“You gonna tell on me?” she asked with a smirk as she popped the top off his bottle with an opener on her keychain.

“No, ma’am,” he replied with a smile. He tipped the bottle up and took a swig of the cool drink, bubbles tickling his throat as he swallowed.

“Sorry I’m in such a shit mood,” she said, opening her own bottle.

“You don’t need to apologize. You’ve had a hell of a week. I’d be in a rotten mood, too, if some jackass had come into my hospital, gotten me manhandled and taken away from my job, and then sweated all over my bedsheets.”

“Well, that last part wasn’t so bad,” said Freya. “I’d probably let you get my bed all sweaty again sometime, if you wanted to.” He turned to her and raised his eyebrows. Lifting the bottle to her lips, she gave him a devilish sort of grin. “You can take that however you like.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Couldn’t even hand me a package of underpants without blushing a day ago, but suddenly she’s a master of the double entendre. You are something else, Freya Lavellan.”

“What’s the S stand for in your name?” she asked, changing the subject and leaning back onto her elbows.

“The what?”

“It was on your dog tags. ‘Cullen S. Rutherford.’”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “It stands for Stanton. A family name, though I couldn’t tell you where in the family my parents got it. Have you got a middle name?” 

“Lailani,” Freya said. “My mother’s first name. In a lot of elven families, your middle name is the same as your parent’s first name. Whichever parent is the same sex, that is. So both of my brothers have Atisumis as their middle names.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s old Elvhen. Means ‘blade that brings peace.’ Which is either apt or ironic, depending on how you feel about butchers.”

Cullen grinned.  
  
“Well, I do feel a sense of serenity whenever I eat bacon,” he replied, “but I feel like the pig would probably have a different view on the subject.”

“Rather.”

Cullen tipped his bottle up again, draining the last swallow. Setting her own beer down on the bleacher beside her, Freya leaned forward and reached into her bag. She pulled out a brightly-colored Nerf football and gave it a small toss in the air.

“You up for showing me some of your skills, mister quarterback?” she asked. She flipped it in his direction, and he caught it with a smile. She was already off the bench and walking toward the grass, and he got up to follow.

He squeezed the ball in his hands, wondering if he could still throw a decent spiral. Freya had walked a good length down the field and turned toward him with her hands in the air.

Gripping the faux laces that were molded into the foam, Cullen cocked his arm back and tossed the ball. It wobbled a bit but spun in an arc toward her, and she caught it easily. She threw it back and it flipped end over end as it flew toward him.

“Don’t laugh at my form,” she called as he dove forward to catch the ball.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, smiling. “Go long!”

Freya jogged backward as he hurled the football through the air again. She nearly caught it, stumbling forward with her arms outstretched, but it bounced out of her hands.

“Fumble!” cried Cullen, laughing. Freya scrambled to pick the ball up. “Oh, but Lavellan recovers!”

She stood up and smiled at him, tucking the ball under her arm and charging in his direction.

“Hey, you’re supposed to run the other way,” he said, pointing behind her. “We’re on the same team!”

“Says who?” she called, racing toward him. He crouched down with a grin to guard his end of the field as she approached, but she feinted to one side and caught him by surprise, spinning and running the other direction so she skirted him easily and tore off toward the end of the field. He turned and gave chase, but she was much faster than he was, and he realized it was a lost cause long before she made it over the goal line.

“Ohhhhh!” she shouted as she crossed into the endzone, bouncing excitedly and spiking the ball on the grass. “She scores!”

She started doing a little dance and Cullen continued jogging toward her. 

“But the referee throws a flag!” he called as he caught up, picking her up and playfully tackling her down onto the soft grass. “A pentalty on the play!” 

“Penalty?!” she asked, giggling “What on earth for? I earned that touchdown fair and square!”

“Unsportsmanlike conduct,” he said, panting a bit. “Excessive celebration.” 

She met his gaze and mirrored the broad smile he was giving her. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, that’s a fucking bullshit rule. Nobody should ever be punished for being _too happy.”_

He held her gaze and put a hand up to her cheek, brushing a thumb over her one dimple, and before she knew what was happening, he was leaning over and his soft lips were pressed against hers. For a moment, she didn't move, caught like a deer in the headlights as he worked his hand gently up her jaw. Recovering, she reached up to his shoulder, sliding her arm around to the back of his neck as she parted her lips slightly in enthusiastic acceptance of his kiss.

Cullen could taste the beer on her tongue as it rolled against his, and he let out a low rumbling moan against her mouth. The knot of one of his stitches scratched against Freya’s lip, and she reluctantly pulled away from him.

“Cullen, we should stop,” she said, breathless.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, looking worried. “If that was out of line, or if you don’t--”

“It’s not that,” she cut in, shaking her head. “It’s just... your lip isn’t healed.”

“Oh, hell, Freya. I don’t care,” he told her, leaning down again, but she put her forefinger firmly over his mouth.

 _“I_ do,” she said. “If you pop a stitch, I don’t have anything to fix it with.”

He sighed.

“Fine, fine,” he told her. “If it’s doctor’s orders.”

Freya looked up into his eyes, then let her gaze slip back down to his lips again.

“Well,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Maybe one more _small_ one wouldn’t hurt.”


	9. Tangible and Intangible (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Build me up from bones,  
> wrap me up in skin.  
> Hold me close enough to breathe me in.
> 
> I held every inch of you.  
> I wrote every line for you.  
> I made time when time was all but gone.  
> You're the love I've always known.
> 
> \--Sarah Jarosz, "Build Me Up From Bones"

By the time they made it back to the loft, Bull’s keys on the hook by the door told them he had returned from a late night at the office. He and Dorian were nowhere to be seen, presumably already in bed for the night. Cullen sat down to take his shoes off and Freya watched him in silence, still feeling a little lightheaded from their kiss under the glow of the little light poles around the football field, and the other two bottles of beer that followed.

She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol that emboldened her in that moment, or just a random streak of devil-may-care, but she stepped over his trainers without a word and sat herself down over him, straddling his lap. Leaning back in surprise, he watched as she ducked down to put her lips to his neck, carding her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of her warm kisses as they trailed upward along his jaw. The light drag of teeth on his earlobe sent a shiver through him.

“Come to bed with me, Cullen,” she whispered. She pulled herself back up and kissed him carefully on the mouth, taking just his lower lip between hers.

He nodded. “Maker, yes.”

She smiled as she dismounted, grabbing his hands in hers. Walking backward toward her bedroom, she pulled him along. He let go of her hands as they entered and shut the door behind him, turning to watch as Freya sat on the end of her bed, leaning back on her palms.

Moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting a bright glow of white around the outline of her body. She kicked her shoes off and nudged them aside with her foot as he crossed the room toward her.

Standing up again, she skimmed her hands up under his shirt, feeling the hard ridges of his stomach muscles and lifting the fabric up and over his head. She peeled the tank top off her own body, then pulled him down on to the bed over her as she scooted back against the pillows. The reclining position had pushed the curves of her breasts up teasingly over the edge of her bra, and he looked down at them with desire painted clearly on his features.

“Can I...?” he asked her, his hand hovering over her collarbone. She took his hand and pressed it firmly against the cup of her bra, squeezing it. He kneaded it eagerly, the satiny white fabric soft against his rough palm. Unsatisfied, Freya reached a hand behind her back and deftly unhooked the band around her bust, then wiggled out of the straps.

He sat there for a moment with his hand on her waist, unabashedly staring at her pale breasts and the little pink-brown nipples that had stiffened visibly in the open air. Wrapping her fingers around his palm again, she slid it across her stomach and back up to the little handful of her bosom. He cupped it gently in his hand, massaging it and intermittently bringing her nipple in between his thumb and forefinger, rolling them against it. She let out a little moan, and he covered her mouth with his again.

“Cullen,” she said, breaking away. “Your sutures.”

"What if I promise to be very, _very_ careful?” he asked, and his warm breath against her lips rendered her powerless to argue. He could feel a dull pain running from the edge of his mouth up toward his cheek along the line of stitches, but the other sensations overloading his senses shoved it quickly aside. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, his teeth bumping against hers as he pinched her nipple firmly.

Freya had let her arms fall onto the pillow at the sides of her head, fingers curled into delicate little arcs as she relished in his attentions. Cullen ached to have them running over his body again, and he pulled back, looking at her.

“I want to feel your hands, Freya.”

“Where?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

“Anywhere,” he said. _“Everywhere._ I don't care, just touch me. Please?”

She remembered what he had said sitting in the truck on the way to his ransacked hotel room, about not having been touched out of anything but necessity in recent memory. She felt a strong surge of affection and sympathy for him, and she brought her hands up to his cheeks. Stubble rasped against her palms as she stroked them along his jawline and down the sides of his neck. She tangled one set of fingers into his hair and brushed the other down his broad chest, snaking her hand around his back to grip his shoulder as he drew her into another kiss.

His pants were starting to feel uncomfortable, his erection straining inside them. He took Freya’s hand off his back and pulled it down to his crotch, rubbing against her palm and letting out a moan.

“You feel what you’re doing to me?” he asked. She stroked him firmly again, and he felt his pulse jump.

“Feels pretty good to me,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“Me too.”

He sat up, looking down as she continued to drag her palm against him over the fabric of his jeans. Reaching toward her waist, he touched the zipper of her pants and looked at her, his eyes asking for permission. She nodded, and he undid them with fumbling fingers, hooking his thumbs over her waistband and sliding it down her thighs. A dark spot was spreading on the crotch of her panties, and he brushed a hand teasingly over it.

Freya was busily undoing his jeans.

“Dread Wolf fucking take whoever decided button-fly jeans were a good idea,” she hissed.

“Hey,” he said with a grin. “You bought ‘em.”

“I didn’t realize I’d be taking them off you in two days’ time, or I may have reconsidered.”

He cocked his head, giving her a look. “And when _did_ you think you would be taking them off me?” he asked her, giving her a crooked smile.

“Well, I thought I’d at _least_ last four days,” she replied, freeing him of his denim prison at last. “But I’m happy to have been mistaken.”

“So am I,” he said, leaning forward again and blazing a trail of kisses along her collarbone as he snuck his hand between her legs, moving the fabric of her panties aside. His fingers brushed against a tuft of soft curls before he found her entrance and tucked one of them inside her. She drew in a sharp breath.

His thumb found its way up to the hard little knot of her clit, sliding lazily along either side of it. She moaned his name, and he felt himself throb hard.

“I love the sound of my name on your lips,” he told her, watching her expression as he teased his thumb against her. He gave her a firm flick, and her hips bucked a little.

“I want--” she rasped, the rest of her thought cut off as he rubbed her with purpose.

“You want what?” he asked in a low rumble against her ear.

“You,” she finished, her voice dusky with lust. “All of you. I want your tongue in my mouth, and I want every inch of your cock buried in me, and I--” Her breath hitched again as he slid another finger into her. The end of her sentence disappeared again. “Ohhh, _Cullen_.”

He drew his fingers out of her and slid her soaked underwear down her slender legs, tossing them without looking. Rolling over, he wiggled out of the rest of his clothes and sat up again with his length in his hand. She was panting as she eyed it, biting her lip. He pushed one of her thighs to the side, spreading her out in front of him, and he looked down, devouring her with his eyes.

Freya felt him rub the head of his cock against her, wetting it against her skin. Her thighs give an involuntary jerk as he brushed it against her swollen clit.

“Maker’s _breath,_ you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered as he pushed inside her. She let out a soft gasp and reached her arm up, pulling him down and parting her lips again as he enveloped them with his. He thrust against her, filling her completely. The moan he received as a reward vibrated over his mouth.

Frozen in place, he closed his eyes and drank in the feeling of her walls pressing against him, hot and slick. His fingers found their way between her legs again and he swirled them against her. She gasped again, and he began to roll his hips against hers slowly, peppering her with light, tender kisses wherever he could reach.

For nearly a month now, he’d been running away from everything, constantly looking behind to make sure he wasn’t being pursued, terrified at what might be over his shoulder. Now, he found himself sprinting toward something--some _one_ \--without even thinking of looking back. He didn’t care that the timing was terrible, or that they barely knew one another. The only thing he was afraid of at the moment was not taking this leap, and spending whatever was left of his life regretting not reaching out to grab a chance at happiness. If his accident had shown him anything, it was that nothing was guaranteed.

Pulling back, he rested on his elbows and tangled both of his hands into her hair. Her eyes fluttered open and they held onto one another’s gaze as he continued to rock slowly and deliberately into her.

“Freya,” he whispered. “I…” He trailed off momentarily, then took a deep breath. “I love you.”

She knew, somehow, that he was going to say it. It wasn’t that she doubted his sincerity, or even that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated, but… gods, it was all just moving so _fast._ He’d stopped moving his body, stroking a thumb against her cheek and drawing big, measured breaths.

“You’ve known me for three days, Cullen,” she said, giving him a small smile.

“And I’ve known I loved you for at least two of them,” he replied. “I know this is happening at lightning speed, but… Maker, Freya. You make me so fucking _happy,_ and that wasn’t something I thought I’d have again. Or even something I thought I deserved. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, I just… I couldn’t _not_ tell you. I didn’t want to take the chance that something might happen and you wouldn’t know.”

“It’s not necessarily that I don’t feel the same way,” she said gently as she glided her fingers through his hair. “It’s just… I mean, really, _three days?_ It seems insane that either of us could know it after that little time.”

“You’ve never heard of love at first sight?”

“Of course, but I’ve always thought it sounded like a load of bullshit.”

“Most people probably think that,” he said, grinning. “Until it happens to them. Besides, it wasn’t first sight for me. It wasn’t until pizza night. So, you see, we’re actually taking things quite slow by comparison.”

She laughed, and the sight of her broad smile crinkling the corners of her eyes filled his heart to the brim. He cupped her cheek in his hand, mirroring her expression.

“I love you too, Cullen,” she told him earnestly after a pause. He felt his heart jump in his chest. It had seemed like too much to hope that she’d say it back.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured to say that if you… if you’re not sure.”

“I don’t say those words if I don’t mean them,” she said softly, pulling him back down against her and arching her hips upward. _“I love you.”_

He kissed her fully and deeply, ignoring the sharp pain in his lip as the sutures pulled tight against his wound. Grinding against her again, more forcefully now, he tightened his grip in her soft hair. She let out a moan as he stretched her insides, feeling him press thickly against each of her walls as he sighed against her mouth.

“You feel so good,” she whispered. His stubble brushed against her palm as he leaned back, gripping her hip in one of his strong hands. She felt him rear back and plunge hard into her, and her breath hitched in her throat.

“Too hard?” he asked. She shook her head, and he thrust forward again with gusto, delighting in the sound of another choked gasp escaping her mouth.

Sitting up, he ran his hands from the nape of her neck down to her breasts, cupping one in each palm as he pistoned in and out of her. He saw her reach over to grab the pillow next to her, and she curled her pelvis upward as she shoved it underneath the small of her back, angling her hips to allow him to slide even deeper into her. He let out a strangled sort of moan deep in his throat as he leaned over her again, and as he ground against her now he could feel the base of his cock rubbing against the hard bundle of nerves at the apex of her folds.

 _“Oh,_ yes,” she rasped, and the noise shot a thrill of desire through him that made his erection give another immense throb. He began driving himself into her faster, and he could see from her ragged inhalations and the way she was clenching around him that she was racing toward climax. Suddenly all he wanted was to bring her over that edge, his own release an afterthought. He felt her swivel her hips against him wantonly.

She pulled him tighter, thinking she would never be able get him close enough to her, feeling his heart slamming against her own as together they both beat in wild, unmatched syncopation. Her lips were pressed against his ear, and she was saying his name over and over, like a whispered prayer for him to bring her to bliss. He felt the muscles of her body tense as she bucked against him once, then twice, and then he was lost in the exquisite tightness of her heat as he felt her walls undulating around his length.

“Cullen,” she cried. “Oh, _Cullen!”_

The sound of his name screamed into the air with abandon was all it took for him to lose control. He watched her come, feeling her milking him as the edge of his own orgasm buzzed warmly through his veins.

“Freya,” he rasped, “I’m… where do I..?”

She clamped her thighs around him, her body firmly stating her opinion on the matter, and he continued to bury himself in her with short, frenzied thrusts as a knot somewhere deep in his gut clenched and then released liquid heat through his groin. His cock jerked, spilling his seed into her as he let out a roar against her cheek. She raked her nails through his sweaty blonde curls and across his shoulder as he wrung himself dry inside her, each delicious thrust sending a new wave of pleasure through her core.

Cullen collapsed against her chest, their bodies drenched with sweat. He could taste a hint of the coppery tang of blood, and he licked his lip painfully. Freya’s hands traced lightly over his skin and his scalp as her breathing slowed.

“That was fucking incredible,” she purred into his ear. She could feel his smile against her neck.

“No disagreement from me,” he told her. “Though I think maybe your roommates know what we’ve been up to.”

“Pff,” scoffed Freya, rolling her eyes. “The number of times I’ve heard those two going at it… I owe them several more before I catch up.”

“Well,” Cullen said with a grin as he propped himself up on his elbow, “I’m happy to help with that.”

She chuckled, wiping a small smear of blood off his lip.

“I didn’t ruin your beautiful stitches, did I?” he asked her. “At some point I forgot to care about being cautious.”

“They look intact to me,” she replied. “I think you just pissed it off, that’s all.”

“Worth it.”

He drew himself slowly out of her, and both of them inhaled sharply at the sensation on their sensitive parts. Looking down at her, he tucked her hair behind one pointed ear.

"I love you.”

“So you said,” answered Freya with a grin.

“Yeah, but somehow it seems more romantic now that I’m not balls deep between your thighs.”

“I don’t care what you’re doing when you say it,” she told him, “so long as it’s the truth.”

“Cross my heart,” he said, making an X-shape over his chest with his forefinger.

“Does this mean you’re going to start sleeping in here now?” she asked.

“Do you want me to?”

Pause.

“Yes, please.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do," he said. "I’ll move all my stuff in here in the morning. Provided I can move my legs again by tomorrow, of course.”

Freya giggled as she tugged the pillow out from under her back and tossed it back up to the head of the bed. The sheets had been rucked down by the motion of their bodies, and she reached down to pull them back up. Cullen rolled off her and lay on his back, drawing a deep breath of air that was scented with the floral smell of Freya’s hair and their mingled sweat on top of a rich basenote of sex. It was an intoxicating combination.

He watched as Freya got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, flipping the light on and closing the door most of the way so she could use the toilet. He heard a flush and then the sound of the running faucet as she washed her hands. She came back to the bed with a glass of water in her hand, offering it to him. Sitting up, he took it gratefully and drank.

She tucked herself under the sheets again and curled herself against his chest as he lay back down, closing her eyes sleepily, thoroughly worn out.

Cullen set the glass on the nightstand beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Mmm?”

“Still love you.”

She snorted.

“I still love you, too. Now shut up and go to sleep, you goose.”

He smiled to himself and kissed her forehead, settling into the cool pillowcase and looking up at the ceiling, still not quite daring to believe he was here, lying in her bed, holding her against him and hearing her say those words. He felt like he should pinch himself, but then he remembered that his dreams were never this pleasant.

For once, it was a comforting thought. It meant that this, right now, was real. And no matter what they did to him, they couldn’t take this away.


	10. Pieces

Two more days passed with little progress in finding out anything more about the encrypted flash drive, or lyrium, or any of the other things they were slowly trying to unravel. 

Cullen had settled into life in the loft with his new friends, which had honestly become a lot easier once all three men were no longer attempting to share one restroom. The bed was a good deal more comfortable than the sofa, as well. And the company didn't hurt. He thought maybe someday the novelty of waking up with Freya next to him would wear off, but it didn’t look like it would happen anytime soon. 

This morning, however, he found her side of the bed empty when he awoke, the indentation where she had slept still just a little warm to the touch. Glancing at her alarm clock, he saw that she had allowed him to sleep in. The previous night had been another rough one for him, and they’d both been up late dealing with the symptoms. He felt grateful for the millionth time that week that he’d ended up in the arms of a doctor. The idea of going through the withdrawal on his own was unimaginable.

When he walked out of the bedroom a few minutes later, he found Freya kneeling quietly on a little round pouf in the living room in front of a small bronze statuette on a shelf. She’d lit a cone of fragrant incense in front of the idol and was sitting with her legs tucked underneath her. Her eyes were closed, but whether in meditation or prayer or some combination of the two, he wasn’t sure. As silently as he could, he made his way to a dining room chair and sat, patiently waiting for her to finish.

It wasn't long before she bowed and stood, moving the pouf into a closet and turning to face him.

“Good morning,” she said with a warm smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Quite well, once the meds kicked in,” he said, returning her expression. “Thanks for letting me stay in bed for a bit. I needed that.”

He walked over to her, kissing her affectionately on the cheek and looking at the idol. It was one of the Elvhen goddesses, though he couldn't ever tell just by looking who was who. 

“You’re Evanurian,” he observed, nodding toward the statue.

“I am,” she said. “My family are Dalish, descended from the elves native to the Free Marches. The Lavellans were one of the old clans.”

“Which of the deities is she?”

“That’s Sylaise,” she explained, pointing at a small bowl in the goddess’s hand. “You can tell because she’s holding a brazier.”

“Ah, yes. The goddess of fire, right?” he asked. 

“That’s right,” she said, looking pleased that he at least had some inkling of what she was talking about. “Among other things, including healing.”

“I took a course in college on Thedosian religions, and we covered the Elvhen pantheon,” explained Cullen. “But I’m a bit rusty on the details.”

“Well, I have several books on the Evanuris, if you’re ever curious. Want some coffee?”

She fixed a pot for the two of them to share and flipped on the news as they set about fixing themselves a late breakfast of avocado toast and bowls of fresh fruit. Cullen sliced a couple of bananas, watching the news anchor discussing the Presidential candidates for the upcoming fall election.

_ “Polls show Progressive Party candidate Corbin Farris leading after an unsurprising endorsement from sitting President Anora Theirin, while Liberty Party candidate Rendon Howe continues to lag by double digits.” _

“I don’t know why people bother voting anymore,” said Cullen, frowning. “One is just as corrupt as the next, it seems.”

“Well, you can thank capitalism for that. When money is the real god and the thing that keeps men in power, it makes it easy to buy anything you want if you’ve got enough of it. Including politicians.”

“Theirin hasn’t been the worst thing for Thedas,” he said. “I will say that. And it’s been nice to finally have a woman as President. But endorsing Farris? I dunno. Something about that guy doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I’ll celebrate when we finally have a _non-human_ President,” said Freya, sprinkling cracked pepper over the slices of toast spread thickly with mashed avocado.

“You ought to run,” Cullen told her. “Show them all how it’s properly done.”

Freya snorted.

“Yes, I’m sure people would queue up in droves to vote for the bisexual, socialist, heathen elf.”

“Well, _I_ would. I like you so much, I’d vote for you _twice.”_

“Aww,” she said, clicking her tongue. “You’re so sweet, with your promises of voter fraud.”

Cullen chuckled, dumping the banana slices into their bowls. He froze as his ear caught the words now issuing from the television set.

_ “--breaking story out of Denerim this morning regarding a fatal incident within the Templar base just outside the city.” _

“Turn this up, will you?” Cullen asked, walking closer to the screen. Freya grabbed the remote. The newscaster cut to a reporter who was standing in front of the entrance to a military base, his hair blowing a little in a gentle breeze.

_“I’m here live at Fort Drakon on the outskirts of Denerim, where just hours ago, an incident occurred here on base that left one soldier dead and three more wounded. Home to one of the factions of the Marine Corp’s elite Templar Division, this base comprises both housing and training facilities. It was during a routine training exercise this morning that eyewitnesses say one of the Templar soldiers appeared to have a mental break, becoming aggressive and violently attacking his fellow Marines and his commanding officer. Names of the soldiers involved in the incident have not been released to the public, but TBC will continue to bring you updates as we know more._ ”

Cullen turned back to look at Freya.

“Another Project Ruby victim?” she asked. He nodded.

“I’d bet you anything,” he said, anger darkening his expression. “I wonder who was killed...”

“Did you know many of the men and women there?”

“At Fort Drakon? No, they were a completely different battalion. But it sounds like it wasn’t only our group that was being used as guinea pigs.”

“And right outside the capital, too,” she said. “I feel like Ferelden’s government _has_ to know something is going on with the Templars. Too many incidents at this point now for them not to cotton on.”

Cullen gave a humorless snort.

“The government is probably helping cover it up,” he said. “They’re the ones who have been shoehorning more funding for the program through the legislature. Though that’s more of a  federal issue. Still, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the statehouse in Ferelden was in on the whole thing.”   
  
“You know,” said Freya, looking thoughtful, “you may have something there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’d be easy enough to look at records from Congressional sessions to figure out who’s been pushing to get funding and research for the Templar program approved. Might be worth seeing who has connections to it.”

“That’s actually a really good idea,” Cullen said, nodding. “All that stuff’s readily available. There are even transcripts and video of the sessions.”

The two sat down at the table with their plates and bowls, keeping an eye on the television for updates as they ate.

“Where’s Pavus this morning?” Cullen asked after a moment, realizing that he hadn’t seen Dorian at all since waking up.

“He left after I got up. I think he was going to run some errands and meet Bull for lunch. They squeeze in as much time as they can together on off-weeks, because when we’re on shift their schedules are completely opposite, and Bull can’t stay up late to see him at night when he has work the next morning.”

“It must be a hard schedule for a lot of relationships,” he replied. She nodded.

“It is.”

“So, why emergency work?” asked Cullen. “Why not be an obstetrician like your mom, or something else with a regular nine-to-five?”

Freya laughed.

“My mom is up at two in the morning a lot of nights, catching babies. She doesn’t keep standard hours, and she’s on call a lot. Neither of us like routine much. Probably where I get it from.” She took a drink of coffee, thinking. “I wanted a job where I would really feel like I was making a _difference._ I wanted something that would challenge me, where I would constantly be using my brain. I can’t stand being bored, and it’s a job where that almost never happens. There are slow nights, but they’re rare.”

She gave Cullen a grin.

“And, of course, I was hoping to meet handsome soldiers who would tell me I’m pretty all the time.”

He chuckled.

“I’m glad that last part worked out. Have I told you yet today that you’re pretty?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, you’re pretty.”

“Awww.” She plucked a strawberry out of her bowl and batted her eyelashes wildly at him as she took a bite. 

The buzz of her cell phone vibrating on the table interrupted their banter, and she looked down at it, chewing.

“Oh,” she said, her expression lighting up. “Take a look at this, Cullen.”  
  


 

  
“Do we bring the drive with us?” he asked, reading over her shoulder.

“That’s entirely up to you. Bull did say he’s very blunt, and a little… _odd_. But not untrustworthy. I think I’d still probably keep it hidden in your book until you’re sure you’re comfortable, though.”

 

* * *

  
  


They pulled up to the cafe in Freya’s Bronco just before four o’clock. Cullen snorted as he glanced at the front window and saw “Grab A Byte” in a digital-looking typeface printed on the glass.

“Someone’s dad must’ve named this place,” he said as he climbed out of the truck. Freya had the copy of the Chant with the hidden flash drive tucked into her bag, and she shouldered it as she hopped down from the running board. They walked in together and looked around at the tables and the desktop computers lining two of the walls. The place was quiet, and it didn’t take long for them to spot their contact, based on a brief description Bull had given them. 

Cole was seated toward the back of the cafe, far away from the other patrons, with a large mug of coffee next to his laptop. A baseball cap seated low over long, shaggy blonde hair concealed his eyes. He didn’t look up as Freya and Cullen took seats opposite him.

“Your name is Cullen,” he said in a soft voice, busily clacking away at the keys of his computer. “Sera told me about you. She says you’re a Templar. She knew the mark.”

“I used to be,” replied Cullen. “But I’m not a Templar anymore.”

That got Cole’s attention. His hands froze, and he looked up at them. He had a thin face and the pallid, waxy complexion of someone who doesn’t spend much time outside.

“Nobody ‘used to be’ a Templar,” he said. “They don’t _let_ people leave.”

“I deserted,” Cullen told him. “They were doing things to the soldiers. Things I couldn’t be part of.”

“That’s why we need your help, Cole,” said Freya in a hushed voice. “We have files that may tell us what exactly they’re doing, but we can’t access the information. It’s encrypted.”

“I can try,” he replied. “But military encryption is tough to crack.”

“We’re willing to pay you,” Freya told him. Cole cocked his head, looking pensive.

“If I find out what they’re hiding, what will you do with the information?”

“Expose what they’re doing,” said Cullen. “Keep them from hurting anyone else.”

“So you’ll use it to help people.”

“Yes,” Freya said. “Innocent soldiers like Cullen. More of them can be free if you can help.”

Cole turned toward Cullen. 

“Free? He’s not _free._ Not yet.”

Freya and Cullen exchanged an uncomfortable look.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked. 

Cole closed the laptop.  

“If they know you have this information,” he said, “they’ll keep coming for you.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take, Cole. It's important that we decrypt these files.”

“Did you bring them with you?” he asked. 

Cullen held out a hand, and Freya gave him the worn book. Opening it, Cullen removed the flash drive, the velcro pieces peeling away from one another noisily. He handed it across the table.

“How much do you need?” asked Freya, pulling a checkbook out of the bag. Cole shook his head.

“If you’ll keep them from hurting people, I’ll do it for free. Besides, I don’t want my name on anything.” 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Cullen asked.

“Depends. Maybe a week, maybe a year. I won’t know until I do it.”

Freya nodded. “All right. So how do we get in contact if we need to?” 

“I’ll be in touch. But ask Sera if you absolutely have to reach me. She knows how.” 

Cole tucked the flash drive into a bag in the chair beside him, then opened his computer back up and resumed typing. Cullen looked from him to Freya and back again

“Okay. Um… I suppose we’ll just talk to you later, then,” she said, standing.  

“Probably,” he replied. 

Freya looked at Cullen and shrugged. They turned to leave, but Cole spoke up one more time.

“I looked you up,” he said. “You were at Kinloch.”

Cullen’s face went a bit pale. He looked startled. Freya froze, staring at Cole.

“That’s right,” Cullen said. “I was.”

Cole tipped his head up, looking Cullen in the eye.

“All they saw was a man in pieces. They thought they could put you back together however they wanted. But the only thing that’s broken is your chains. You’re still you, and you’re still whole. Don’t let them make you doubt that.”


	11. Like Normal People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, little train, we're jumping on  
> the train that goes to the Kingdom.  
> We're happy, Ma, we're having fun,  
> And the train ain't even left the station...
> 
> Hey, little train, wait for me.  
> I was held in chains, but now I'm free.  
> I'm hanging in there, don't you see,  
> in this process of elimination.
> 
> \--Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, "O Children"

“Shit!”

Freya turned her head toward the bathroom counter where Cullen was standing. It was Friday afternoon, and she’d been spending a large portion of the day sitting in her bed, laptop propped up on her thighs, looking up the voting records of Thedosian Congress members. Setting her computer down on the mattress, she walked toward the open bathroom door.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked, peeking in.

The room was still humid from the hot shower he’d just taken, and he’d wiped a large swath of the mirror with a towel to clear the condensation. He was leaning over the sink with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bottom half of his face covered in thick white shaving cream. She could see that he was holding his hand over a spot on his jaw, the cream around his fingers tinted pink with blood.

“I just cut myself, that’s all,” he said. The other hand gripping the razor was trembling wildly. “The shakes just sneak up on me sometimes, and it’s always at the least convenient moment.”

Freya walked toward him.

“May I?” she asked, holding out her hand. Cullen glanced down at it, then back up at her.

“Have you ever shaved someone’s face before?” he asked, looking skeptical. Freya smirked.

“If I can manage knees, ankles, and the treacherous curves of a bikini area, I think I can handle a little facial stubble.”

He handed her the razor, still seeming a little reluctant as she hopped up backwards on the counter, facing him. He leaned down toward her, and she gently placed a hand on his cheek, pulling his skin taut across his sideburn.

“Any last words?” she asked.

“That inspires so much confidence,” replied Cullen, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Grinning, she began drawing the razor downward in slow, light strokes.

“Bull sent me a text awhile ago,” she told him after a moment. “Big court case finished this morning, so he’ll be home early. They decided in his client’s favor, so he wants to treat everyone to dinner and drinks to celebrate.”

“That sounds nice,” he replied as Freya leaned over to swish the razor clean in the sink full of warm water. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. ‘In the mood for Antivan,’ was all he said. Hope you like spicy.”

“Well, I think you know the answer to that,” he said, giving her a crooked smile, and placing a shaking hand on her thigh.

“Razor blade moving toward your neck, darling. Not a good time to distract me.”

He chuckled, tilting his head up so she could glide the razor along the underside his chin.

“How’s the research going?” he asked as soon as she took another break to clean the blade.

 _“Boringly,”_ replied Freya. “A lot of the funding for the program has been tacked on to completely unrelated bills, so I’m just working on sifting through everything I can find over the past few years. Some of the stuff they add to these laws is ridiculous. You remember that clean energy bill from last year, the one that would mandate carbon footprint reductions for corporations over a certain size? Among the other ridiculous add-ons, some jackass representative from Ferelden tacked on like half a billion dollars for a big industrialized pig farm to be built in the Hinterlands.”

“That’s taking the term ‘pork-barrel spending’ a bit literally,” joked Cullen.

“The extra special irony there is that corporate farms have some of the largest pollution outputs of any industry in the entire country. That is one thing I respect about my dad’s shop--he only sources from local farmers who treat their animals respectfully. You know, other than that whole _killing_ part, obviously.”

“Killing something that would rather not be lunch _is_ pretty disrespectful, it’s true.”

Freya stopped swishing the razor, looking up at the smirk he was giving her.

“You’re making fun of me,” she said, putting a hand on her hip and smearing a bit of shaving cream over the seam of her shorts as she gave him an incredulous look.

“I would _never.”_

The grin spreading across his face made the statement thoroughly unconvincing. She narrowed her eyes and reached for his cheek again, pulling sideways to tighten the skin over his upper lip as gently as she could.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute, you know. Hold still, I don’t want to accidentally rake this over your stitches. You really shouldn’t have gotten the shaving cream so close to them.”

He remained motionless as she carefully shaved the perimeter of the wound. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and the very tip of her pink tongue was poking out from between her lips. It was adorable, and he had to fight to keep from smiling. She finished, then pulled the drain on the sink and began rinsing the blade with fresh, hot water.

“Grab me a washcloth, will you, please?” she asked. He got one down from the shelf next to the shower, and she switched the faucet to cold water and wet the cloth.

“Have you seen any names come up on multiple Templar projects?” asked Cullen as she wiped the rest of the shaving cream from his face.

“I’ve only seen two of these projects come up so far, and there were definitely some of the same names on both, but not really enough to establish a pattern. Mostly Liberty representatives, unsurprisingly. They ought to just call themselves the Jingoist Party. Not that the Progressives are much better, most of the time.”

Freya leaned back, examining her handiwork. She liked Cullen with a little bit of stubble, but after more than a week without shaving, his scruff _had_ been getting a bit out of hand. Running a thumb down the shallow cleft of his chin, she smiled at him.

“See?” she asked. “You survived.”

Cullen looked over her shoulder into the mirror, which had now completely de-fogged as the moisture in the bathroom dissipated. His face was smooth and neatly shaven; she hadn’t missed a hair. Letting his eyes trail downward, he saw the top of her panties peeking out of her shorts in the reflection of the mirror, and above them just a hint of the paired dimples in the center of her back that never failed to give him a little stir in his loins. He drew his gaze back up to her face. His hand was still on her thigh, and he slid it upward, letting it sneak under the leg of her shorts.

“You know, you did such a nice job, I think you deserve a tip.”

He leaned down and kissed her, the scent of the shaving cream heavy on his skin. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck as he plied her mouth open, tongue flitting gently in between them to tease its way over her lips.

“You just finished getting all clean,” she said softly, breaking apart from him with a smile. He looked at the reflection of her backside in the mirror again, and the thought of being able to watch himself drive into her on the bathroom counter was just too tempting to resist.

“That’s true,” he told her with a roguish grin, dropping his towel to the floor and yanking her hips toward him. “But given the choice, if you’re involved, I’ll choose dirty every time.”

 

* * *

 

La Fundición was, by Cullen’s standards, a very nice restaurant. They had been seated by a beautiful human female host in a slim-fitting black dress. She’d eyed Bull with unconcealed interest, prompting Dorian to quickly grab his hand, which led Freya to let out a quiet snort of laughter that she attempted to disguise as a cough. Krem, who had joined them for dinner, leaned to one side of Cullen to watch as the woman walked away, ample hips swinging to and fro.

“I don’t think the drink menu is printed on her ass, Krem,” teased Bull.

Freya chuckled as she ran her eyes down a printed list of cocktails, wines, and beer. Cullen looked over her shoulder at the selections, trying not to be distracted by the smell of whatever heavenly perfume she was wearing, or the fact that she had chosen a neckline this evening that plunged delightfully low on her freckled decolletage, a simple green stone that almost exactly matched her eyes hanging in the center of her chest on a delicate silver chain. She fancied up very nicely, he thought to himself. 

“Fifteen dollars for a tequila shot,” she said, giving a low whistle. “Better be made from unicorn pee.”

“It’s Rey Sol Anejo,” Dorian said. “It may as well be. Besides, the last time you did tequila shots, you ended up falling off a bar stool and bruising your tailbone so badly you couldn’t sit for a week.”

“We can wait until Cullen and I have known each other a _little_ longer before we go telling all the embarrassing Drunk Freya stories, I think.”

“Disagree,” said Cullen. “Full disclosure is the key to a healthy relationship. Please do go on, Dorian.”

She reached out and gave him a playful backhanded smack on the arm, still looking over the drinks. She glanced up at Bull.

“Congratulations on your case,” she said, changing the subject. “Was this the discriminatory housing thing?”

“Yep,” he answered. “And at _least_ half the credit goes to Krem. Busted his hump all month on this one.”

He reached over and clapped his assistant heartily on the back, eliciting a small wince.

“Just doing my job,” Krem replied, though he looked obviously pleased.

A server in a crisp shirt and tie came by to drop off plantain chips and a rich black bean salsa. He then took their drink orders, and as soon as the glasses full of various kinds of alcohol were delivered, they all lifted theirs to Bull and Krem. The food orders were taken shortly after, and Cullen could feel his stomach growling as they waited, munching on the light appetizer.

“What is a plantain, anyway?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”

“It’s basically a banana that tastes like a potato,” Krem replied, dunking one of the chips into the salsa. “It must be nice to be eating new foods again after surviving on whatever they served in the military." 

“Well, actually, the base had a commissary that was a lot like a normal grocery store. So it wasn’t like all we had was mess hall crap. We had a lot of control over what we ate. Definitely no plantains at commissary, though.”

“Do you miss it at all?” asked Dorian. “The military life?”

“I miss my friends,” replied Cullen. “There were a lot of good men and women in my battalion. Sometimes I feel guilty for leaving them behind. And I miss my neighbor's Mabari. Which I realize is probably the most Ferelden thing you've heard all day.”

The food arrived, interrupting the conversation momentarily as they all tucked into their plates. Cullen had ordered a seafood paella on Bull’s suggestion, and as he inhaled the aroma coming off the iron skillet in front of him, he was instantly glad he'd listened to the recommendation. He looked over at Freya, who was spooning a large portion of guacamole over the rice bowl she had ordered.

“Boy, when you say ‘extra guacamole,’ they really bring you _extra_ extra,” he observed.

“Freya would live entirely off of avocados and chocolate ice cream if she thought she could survive,” Dorian said, grinning.

“I’m still not convinced I _couldn’t,_ ” she said, scooping the last of the guacamole out of the small dish she’d been brought. “I should really just run that experiment and see.”

Cullen smiled at her and split open a mussel with his fork.

“So I know you don’t actually specialize in military law," he said, addressing Bull now, "but how long does it usually take for a court-martial to be called?”

“Well, that’s an interesting thing,” Bull answered as he squeezed a fresh slice of lime over what looked like an entire half of a salmon. “I’d been meaning to talk to you about this all week, but with the case in court and us being so busy, I haven’t had a chance. I don’t think you _are_ going to be court-martialed.”

“What?” asked Cullen, frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you can only be court-martialed if you’re military. And, from what we can tell, you’re not anymore. If they wanted to go that route, they should have arrested you as soon as you had finished treatment with Freya.” 

Freya looked from Cullen to Bull, her eyes wide.

“We assumed his ‘dishonorable discharge’ in the exam room was metaphorical,” she said, looking shocked. “Just Samson posturing, showing us how big and scary and powerful he could be.”

“I thought so, too, when you described it,” Bull said. “But I had Krem do some research, and they’ve filed the paperwork. You're out, man."

“Without a trial first?” Cullen asked. “Is that even legal?”

“It is for Templars,” said Krem, shrugging. “That division seems to have a completely separate set of rules from the normal military sector, from what I’ve seen. Your commanding officer has the power to dismiss you at any time, without trial. It’s sort of a more extreme version of a drumhead court-martial, where they try you in the field for really egregious crimes. Except in the Templars, they can do it for anything.” 

“What I don’t think Samson realizes,” said Bull, “is that he’s sort of shot himself in the foot here. If he wanted you in prison, he should’ve gone through the trial system. You could’ve faced years for desertion, and he could have attempted to have the driving offense tacked on, as well. As it stands, though, you’ll be answering to those charges in civilian court, which gives us a pretty big advantage. I know civilian law, and I also know most of the judges around here, so I can form a strategy for the trial now. Not that I think they have much of a case, anyway.”

Dorian cleared his throat. 

“Amatus, are you planning on _billing_ Cullen for this discussion?” he asked.

“What?” asked Bull. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re out to eat, not on the clock.”

“In _that_ case,” replied Dorian, mustache curling up as he smiled as sweetly as he could, “do you think we could try to get through the rest of the meal _without_ you talking shop? It would be very nice to just pretend we’re a group of perfectly _normal_ people enjoying delicious food together, and that none of us is a wanted fugitive.”

“Fugitive is a strong word,” said Cullen, grinning. “But I see your point. Change of subject. How’s everyone’s dinner?”

The meal finished with pleasant, thoroughly non-work-related conversation. Another round of drinks also made their way to the table, and they chatted their way through their second set of cocktails and wine.

“You know what we should do?” asked Dorian as he set down his empty glass. “We should go dancing. We haven’t been to a club in _ages.”_

Freya stole a glance at Cullen, who was looking supremely uncomfortable with the idea of loud music and public dancing.

“Why don’t you three go?” she said, turning to Dorian. “I know you’ll probably want to stay up late tonight to try to adjust for going back to work tomorrow. We can just relax at home and you can go have fun until the wee hours without us to slow you down.”

Cullen shot her a grateful look. 

“Maker, they’ve known one another a week and they’re already going home early like an elderly married couple,” Dorian complained, setting down his napkin. “Fine, go and be happily _boring_ together.”

 

The short walk down the block to where they had parked the Bronco was quite pleasant. It was an unseasonably cool evening for late August in Kirkwall, and a gentle breeze was blowing through the city.  

When they got to the apartment, Freya got a bottle of wine down from the rack in the kitchen, waving it at Cullen.

“Want to keep the party going?” she asked, grinning. “You’ll have to reach the glasses. This apartment was not planned with petite little elves in mind.” 

Cullen obligingly pulled a couple of stemless goblets off of a high shelf inside one of the cabinets. Freya was turning on the sound system.

“I thought we could go up on the roof,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve seen it yet.”

“What’s on the roof?” Cullen asked, looking surprised. She smiled and tapped on her phone screen for a moment, pulling up some music, then turned and beckoned for him to follow. There was a set of sliding glass doors in the kitchen at end of the long line of plate glass windows that lined the south side of the loft, and she pulled them open. They walked out onto a small balcony, which Cullen had noticed but never explored. Gesturing, Freya directed his attention to a set of wrought-iron stairs at the end of the building that led upward onto the roof.

As he crested the top of the stairs, he saw a nice set of patio furniture arranged around a small table and a little stone chiminea. The edges of the rooftop patio were lined with flower boxes that housed more of Freya’s plants. He looked out at the view, trying to spot the landmarks he was becoming familiar with around the neighborhood. The hospital was visible several blocks away, brightly lit and taller than most of the other nearby buildings. In the opposite direction, he could also make out the little high school and the football field where he’d kissed Freya for the first time a few days ago.

Looking up, he could see that it was a clear night and, despite the light pollution in the large city, countless twinkling stars stood out against the dark sky. Freya was seated on the little rattan settee in the middle of the patio. She’d pulled the cork from the bottle with a wine key and was pouring two generous goblets for them.

Cullen took a seat next to her. Music was floating out from a pair of wireless speakers that had been placed on either side of the seating area. 

“It’s amazing up here,” he said, taking the glass Freya was offering him.

“Yeah,” she agreed, nodding. “I didn’t _only_ pick the penthouse for the windows.”

He leaned back, propping one foot on the low table in front of them. 

“Good news about the trial,” he said, swirling the glass in his hand. “I never thought I’d be relieved to be dishonorably discharged, but… well, here we are.”

Freya turned and crossed her bare legs over his lap, kicking her pumps off and letting them fall to the ground with a clatter.

“It’s definitely reassuring,” she replied. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s going to be a lot easier to do battle in a civilian courtroom.” 

“I wonder how long it’ll take for them to call a trial date.”

“No idea,” she said. “The last time I was subpoenaed about a case involving the hospital, it was a few weeks. Same with Kare--”

She cut herself off abruptly, realizing she was about to talk about her former girlfriend, whom she had never really talked with Cullen about. He looked over at her, his expression softening.

“I know about Karena,” he told her. “Bull and Dorian mentioned her the day after my accident, while you were out getting all my clothes and things. They told me what happened.”

“Oh,” Freya said quietly.

“I hope you’re not upset with them for telling me. I don’t think they meant any harm in doing so. Dorian mentioned her in passing, and I asked who she was.”

“No,” she said, propping her elbow on the back of the sofa and resting her temple in her palm. “I’m not mad. It’s honestly probably best that I didn’t have to talk about it. I don’t like thinking about that chapter of my life much.”

“Understandable,” Cullen said. He was running one of his hands affectionately up and down her smooth, slender calf. “I’m sorry that happened. When they told me, I felt… Maker, it made me physically _sick_ thinking of anyone doing that to you.” 

She shrugged. 

“It’s in the past,” she said. “I’ve been trying not to let it affect me. If you dwell on the bad shit, it makes it awfully hard to be happy. And I don’t want any of that to bleed into what I’ve got now. Which _does_ make me happy. Immensely so.”

Cullen smiled at her.

“The feeling is mutual.”

There was a slow, sweet song wafting out of the speakers. Leaning forward, he set his wine glass on the table and shifted. Freya tucked her knees up so he could stand. She watched with one eyebrow arched as he turned and held out his hand, looking her in the eye. As she took it, he coaxed her into a standing position and walked her to a clear area closer to the planters that lined the rooftop. He wrapped an arm around her waist and intertwined his other hand with hers, pulling her close. 

“I got the impression after dinner that you weren’t much of a dancer,” she told him, looking pleasantly surprised as he began swaying to the music with her under the stars.  
  
“I’m not,” he confessed, giving her another small smile. “But for _you,_ I’ll try.”


	12. Breathe

Freya was restless.

Cullen watched as she opened her laptop, attempted to do more research on Templar funding, then shut it five minutes later, unable to concentrate. She fixed herself a bowl of pretzels, ate two, and then set it down with a sour expression when she realized she didn’t actually have an appetite. Turning on the television, she flopped onto the couch and surfed through their entire Netflix queue and several recommended titles before tossing the remote aside in frustration.

“Freya, you seem upset. Can I help?” he asked, giving her a sympathetic look.

“No,” she grumbled, fidgeting with the frayed fabric of a hole in her jeans. “I’m just antsy. This is the first time Dorian has ever worked a shift without me. I feel… I don't know. Left out, I guess. It’s probably stupid. I complain about that place constantly, and then they essentially give me a paid vacation and I complain about _not_ being there.”

Cullen slid up next to her on the sofa, burying his lips in her hair to give her a soft kiss. “It’s not stupid,” he said gently.

He had watched her hug Dorian goodbye, seeing the regret on her face as she told him to be safe, handed him a brown paper sack she'd packed up like a mother sending her kid off to school, and reminded him to make sure he initialed his charting and communication notes in the computer, for fuck’s sake.

“I’ll be fine,” he’d told her, taking the packed lunch to humor her. "Try to have some actual _fun_ or something, okay?"

“I miss him,” she said softly now. “Which is silly, because he’ll be back tomorrow morning. But we spend every night at work together and most of our off days, too. Not being there just makes me feel kind of _empty_ , I guess.”

“You guys have a strong friendship,” said Cullen. “I’ve never really seen a pair of friends as close as you two.”

“Well, we’ve been in the shit together for years. Personal _and_ professional.” She looked up at Cullen. “He took care of me, you know, after Karena put me in the ER. It was before he and Bull moved in. He stayed with me for a week, twenty-four hours a day. Held my hair back while I threw up from the concussion, walked me to the bathroom when I needed to go, made sure I took my meds on time. Percocet and ibuprofen, every four hours, on the dot. ‘Don’t chase the pain,’ he’d tell me. ‘We need to stay ahead of it.’ He even helped me keep clean. I couldn’t shower until I could stand on my own, so he gave me fucking _sponge baths_ in bed. Not many friends would go that far for someone.”

“Wow,” said Cullen, his eyebrows raised. “That’s some devotion, for sure.”

Freya nodded.

“And I had been treating him like absolute  _shit_ , too. Karena was possessive, didn’t like me spending time with anyone else. And she was horribly jealous of my friendship with Dorian. Which was silly, because I have _nothing_ that man is interested in. But she got so mad about it. So I stopped calling him, returning his texts. I basically only talked to him at work. I know it hurt his feelings something awful. But then, when he found out what was going on, it was like nothing had happened at all. He just came over and took care of me like I was still his best friend.”

“Well,” said Cullen with a shrug, “I think that’s because you _were_.”

“I certainly hadn’t been acting like it.”

“But if you love someone enough, you can look past those sorts of things,” he replied. “You guys are fortunate to have each other. I’ve never had anyone who cared about me like that.”

Freya gave a nod. "I wish I was there to help him tonight. I bet it's a mad house."

“You know what?” asked Cullen, realizing this particular line of conversation wasn't helping her out of her funk. “Let’s get you out of the apartment. Let’s go do something.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Let’s, um… hmm...” He thought for a moment. “Well, why don’t we go visit your dad? You said his shop is in town, right? You probably don’t get to see your family as often as you want. Let’s go say hi.”

“You want to meet my _dad?”_ Freya asked, arching an eyebrow. “Usually people wait longer than a week before they go meeting the parents.”

“Well, nothing else about this has been normal. Why start now?”

 

* * *

 

Ati’s Artisanal Butchery and Charcuterie was a standalone building near the Hightown farmer’s market. As they pulled into the small parking lot, Cullen took a deep breath. The smoky aroma of cured meats floated through the air vents into his nostrils.

Freya hopped down from the truck and shouldered her bag. She could see her dad already waving from inside, having recognized the Bronco. She smiled and waved back, noticing her dad eyeing Cullen.

A sudden, abrasive buzzing noise sounded as they walked in, making Freya jump a little.

“Sorry,” said her father, giving her an apologetic smile. “That’s new. So I can hear when people come in if I’m in the back dismembering something.” Freya cringed at the description. “What brings you in today? And who’s your friend?”

“Daddy, this is my…” she trailed off, not sure what to call him. 'Friend' was certainly too casual. She hated the word 'boyfriend;' it smacked too much of high school or something, like she should be walking around in his letter jacket. She stammered for a second, then finished with an uncertain edge to her voice. “Cullen.”

 _This is my Cullen?_  she thought. _For Mythal’s fucking sake._

Cullen stuck out his hand, seeming not to notice.

“Cullen Rutherford, sir,” he said politely, giving the older elf a wide smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Freya’s father took his hand and shook it with a firm grip.

“Atisumis Lavellan” he replied, returning the smile. “You can call me Ati, though. Everyone does.” He turned to his daughter. “Glad you finally got yourself one. Everyone should have a Cullen, that’s what I’ve always said.”

“Funny, Daddy,” Freya said, rolling her eyes. She was trying hard not to look too carefully at the meat that was visible in every direction. There was a fairly unappetizing display of tongues that she’d made the mistake of noticing, and her stomach was churning uncomfortably.

Ati and his daughter looked nothing alike, Cullen noticed. He was rather tall for an elf, with dark brown eyes and straight, shiny hair that was just one shade off from black, peppered with grey. Where Freya’s skin was pale and freckled, her father’s was a deep, unmarked tawny shade.

The genetic influence seemed to come out more in their shared taste for decor. Ati’s place had none of the pomp and pretense Cullen had seen in so many ‘artisanal’ shops before. It was decorated instead with antique signs and the same kind of vintage diner-esque tables as the one in their loft, and there were several houseplants hanging around, hiding on shelves and decorating tabletops.

Looking at Ati’s apron also gave Cullen the impression that he and Freya shared the same sense of humor. It read “NOBODY BEATS OUR MEAT” in large red letters. He chuckled appreciatively at it.

“Nice apron,” he said, gesturing. Ati puffed out his chest proudly.

“Birthday gift from Freya,” he beamed. “Which is ironic, considering.”

“I can’t resist a good dick joke,” she admitted with a shrug. “How are things?”

“Good, good. Business is good,” he said. “We got a new smoker, and I swear it’s literally made of magic. I’d let you try some of the fruits of my labor, but, well...” He turned to Cullen and gave him an appraising sort of look. “ _You’re_ not a vegetarian, are you?”

“No, sir. I’m not.”

“Well, then!” Ati said, looking positively delighted. He disappeared behind the counter, bending down to reach for a sample platter. There was a variety of sliced meats artfully arranged in beautiful radial symmetry around the plate. Cullen smiled.

“Wow, that’s quite the selection.”

“Try some!” replied Ati, nudging the platter toward him. “Have as much as you like. I have some cheeses you’re welcome to try, as well. There’s a smoked gouda that goes fantastically with the applewood-cured ham there.”

He bustled over to the other end of the counter and removed a large wedge of cheese, opening it and cutting off a couple of thick slices.

“So, I probably should have mentioned that my family are all feeders,” Freya said, turning to him. “You can’t escape their clutches without a full belly.”

“No complaints here,” Cullen replied, shrugging. Ati returned and handed a slice of cheese to Cullen.

“Wrap the ham around that and tell me that isn’t a little bite of heaven.” He passed a piece of the cheese to Freya as well, giving her a suspicious look. “Haven’t gone full-blown _vegan_ , have you?”

“Nope,” she replied, taking the slice and giving it a taste. She raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. “Wow. This _is_  good.”

“Well, you should take some home with you. And Cullen can pick anything he likes to take home with him, as well.”

“That’s really sweet, Dad, but we can pay for our food.”

“I won’t hear of it,” he replied, crossing his arms firmly and shaking his head. “And anyway, it doesn't even look like they're paying you enough to buy yourself a new pair of jeans. How many holes do they have to get in them before you finally throw them away?"

Freya rolled her eyes, giving Cullen a long-suffering look as her dad kept talking. He grinned, giving her a small wink.

"Take a few steaks for Bull and Dorian, too. I haven’t seen them round in ages.”

“This ham is fantastic, sir.” Cullen said, finishing the bite he’d been chewing. “Thank you so much.”

“I don’t think I’ve been called ‘sir’ this much in one go since… well, _ever_. You military?”

“Former,” Cullen said simply, and left it at that.

“Huh. Where’d you find this one?” Ati asked, turning to Freya and gesturing at Cullen with a nod as he began packaging things for them. “I like him.”

“Work,” Freya said simply, and left it at that.

“Well, Cullen, you’re welcome to swing by any time you like. It’s always a pleasure to meet Freya’s _friends.”_

He leaned a bit on the last word, giving Freya a knowing grin. A Dwarven couple walked in, mimicking Cullen's initial response and inhaling the rich, savory smells as the door buzzer sounded.

“Be right with you!” Ati said to them genially. He finished wrapping the steaks and laid everything neatly in a paper shopping bag with his logo stamped on the front. Coming around the counter, he handed it all to Cullen and pulled Freya into a warm hug. “Hope you’re taking care of yourself, sweetie,” he told her. Then, something seemed to occur to him, and he pulled back, his hands on her shoulders. “Say, shouldn’t this be an on-week for you?”

“I’m… taking some time off.”

“Well, it’s _about damn time,”_ Ati said approvingly. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Tell your mother I said hello, next time you talk to her. Cullen, pleased to have met you. Don’t be a stranger.”

He shook Cullen’s hand warmly again and pulled him into a friendly hug, clapping him on the back. It seemed to take Cullen by surprise, but he recovered well and returned the gesture, smiling broadly.

“Likewise, sir. Have a great evening.”

Ati turned to help the dwarves, who were peering hungrily into the refrigerator case at one side of the shop, and Freya and Cullen exited again to the tune of another loud buzz.

“Remember how I told you I’m a toucher?” Freya said, looking apologetic. “I come by that honestly, too. Feeders and touchers, the whole family.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen said, smiling at her. “Your dad’s great. You look _nothing_ alike, though.”

“No,” agreed Freya. “Aaron and Sal got some of his resemblance, but I’m a carbon copy of my mom.”  
  
“Well, she must be a real babe then,” he answered, wiggling his eyebrows. Freya rolled her eyes.

“Don’t make it _weird_ , Cullen.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment was quiet that night. Bull had gone to visit some friends across town, so Freya and Cullen decided to do pizza on their own again.

“We don’t normally do pizza night during on-weeks, but I think we can make an exception,” Freya had said. The combination of melty cheese and juicy pineapple chunks was too much of a temptation to turn down.

Dinner had been spent at the dining room table, the two of them chatting more about Freya’s dad and the rest of her family. After they had finished eating, they retreated to the sofa. Cullen sat on one end with his glasses perched on his nose and a copy of one of Freya’s books on the Evanuris, which she had been thrilled to see him actually take an interest in. She sat sideways with her back against the opposite armrest. Flipping her laptop open and resting it on her legs, she wriggled her bare toes under Cullen’s warm thigh.

“Just make yourself comfortable,” he said, reaching down to give her bare foot a playful tickle. She squirmed and giggled.

“My toes are cold,” she said, burrowing them even further under him.

“Well, if you’d wear _socks,”_ he said, smiling as he turned a page.

“Socks are gross,” she answered in protest. _“You,_ on the other hand, are a delightful and handsome footwarmer.”

“Flatterer.”

They read in silence for several minutes, each getting absorbed in their material. Then, like the sound of a starting pistol, a thunderous _CRACK!_  rang through the air of the apartment. Cullen dove to cover Freya, sending her laptop sliding off her legs onto the couch and pulling her to the ground so abruptly that the coffee table crashed over onto its side.

“Cullen!” she gasped, his considerable weight pressing down on her so that she had trouble drawing breath. His eyes were wide, and he was looking toward the windows with a panicked expression. “It’s _okay,_ Cullen, it wasn’t anything! It was just a car backfiring.”

Images swam in front of his vision--a hard stone floor and a spreading pool of slick red blood; a man’s thumb hovering over the detonator of a vest bomb; the jerk of a woman’s body falling forward, hitting the floor as it was caught by a stray bullet that had been meant for someone else. He could feel his heart racing and a growing tightness in his chest.

“Sweetheart, please, I can't move,” Freya was saying, her words drifting to his ears from somewhere far away. He looked down to see her pushing on his shoulders, fighting to free herself from underneath his body. Startled, he jumped backward onto his knees, reaching down to help her into a sitting position. He was panting hard.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I thought it was…  Did I hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” she said, a bit startled, looking at the way he was shaking. His chest moved rapidly as he drew quick, shallow breaths. “Are _you_ all right?”

Cullen shook his head, putting a hand to his chest. It felt like there was a vice around his ribs, and some invisible hand was slowly turning the crank. Freya helped him onto the couch, taking his wrist. His pressures were obviously high, the vein pulsating forcefully against her fingers, and his heart was beating at lightning speed. She stood, but Cullen grabbed her hand.

“Please,” he breathed. “Don’t leave.”

She sat back down, looking him in the eyes and placing her hand on his cheek.

“I need to go get my stethoscope so I can listen to your heart. I have to make sure you're not having a serious cardiac episode. I promise, I’m not going any further than our room. Count out loud and I’ll be back before you make it to fifteen, okay?”

Cullen nodded, reciting the numbers under his breath as Freya jogged the short distance to her room. She was back by the time he reached nine, stethoscope dangling from her hand. Snaking it up under his shirt, she pressed the cold disc of the bell against his skin, listening.

“Your heart is going a million miles an hour, but it sounds fine otherwise,” she said, taking the ear pieces out after a moment. “Has anything like this happened to you before?”

“A few times,” he panted. “After Kinloch. It stopped happening once I started lyrium, though.”

“Cullen, I think what you’re experiencing right now is a panic attack. I'm guessing that backfiring car must have triggered it." She paused, giving him a concerned look. "Have you ever been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder?”

He shook his head.

“Not that I recall, but a lot of what happened right after Kinloch is hazy. So I can’t be sure.”

Freya nodded, taking his hands in hers.

“I want you to concentrate on my breathing and follow my lead, okay? Inhale for four counts, hold it for two, exhale slowly for eight counts.”

She took a deep breath and watched as he closed his eyes and did the same, holding it and letting it back out when she did. She counted out loud for the first few respirations, then talked quietly to him as he continued following the same pattern.

“You’re doing great, Cullen. Visualize your own heart slowing back down to a calm, even rhythm. Relax your muscles, release the tension in your body. You’re safe. I’m right here. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

When his breathing had finally returned to normal and his pulse had slowed, he edged up against Freya and laid his head on her chest. She ran her hand through his hair, still murmuring words of comfort.

Cullen thought back to the little internet cafe, and what Cole had said.

_He’s not free _…_ They’ll keep coming for you. _

“We’re safe, Cullen,” she was saying. “Everything is going to be okay.”

She sounded so sure, so confident in her words. He wished he felt the same. He wanted to believe her so badly, but he knew they still hadn’t even scratched the surface. They barely even knew what it was they were trying to expose. Who knew what sleeping dragons they had yet to encounter, or what would happen when they woke?

“Sweetheart, you’re holding your breath.”

Her voice called him back to the present, and he realized she was right. Every muscle in his body had tensed again. He inhaled deeply, feeling the calm meter of her heartbeat against his temple as he relaxed, sinking further into her embrace.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he told her.

“Remember earlier today,” she replied, still running her fingers soothingly across his scalp, “when we were talking about Dorian, and you said you’d never had someone in your life who cared about you that much?”

He nodded.

“You do now.”


	13. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Graphic Violence

“Mythal’s _sake_ , Cullen, stop moving for a second and this will go a lot faster.”

Cullen opened his eyes and looked up at Freya, who was bent over him with a pair of tiny silver scissors that had a little hooked end on one blade. He adjusted his position on the closed toilet seat.

“It itches,” he complained, twitching his upper lip.

“And as soon as I have these out, we’ll clean it up and it’ll itch a lot _less_.”

Sliding the tiny hooked end of the scissor under one of the stitches she’d given him, she carefully snipped it next to the knot, then gently pulled it out with her fingers. He managed to hold still for the last few sutures, eyes closed as he sat on the uncomfortable lid of the commode with his head tilted up toward her.

“There,” said Freya, straightening her back. She looked at the thin seam of freshly-healed pink skin running in a jagged line from the edge of his lip up toward his cheek, cutting a path through his stubble. There was definitely a good reason she wasn’t a plastic surgeon, but it had healed very nicely, all things considered. Reaching toward a glass jar next to the sink, she pulled out a cotton pad and wet it with warm water. She gently wiped the scar clean.

“How does it look?” Cullen asked. He watched as she threw the cotton pad away and leaned over to rummage in a drawer for something.

“Well, it healed up really well. You can’t see any track marks from the sutures. It’s a really clean scar.”

She found the bottle she had been looking for and squeezed a drop of clear oil on her fingertip.

“What’s that?”

“Just plain old vitamin E. It’ll help keep the skin supple while it heals and break down scar tissue so it’ll get less noticeable over time.”

Cullen closed his eyes again as she smoothed it over his skin and worked it in. After all the itching, her touch against it felt incredibly satisfying.

When she had finished, he stood and turned toward the sink, leaning over and examining his face in the mirror. He frowned.

“I know it’s not perfect,” Freya said, biting her lip nervously. “I’ve never been great at cosmetic stuff.”

“It’s not that, Freya. You did a beautiful job. I just… need to get accustomed to seeing myself like this.”

“Not that my opinion matters much, but I rather like it.”

He turned, raising an eyebrow. “Do you?”

She gave him a small smile, leaning her hip against the countertop.

“Have I ever told you that I speak Elvhen?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think it’s come up.”

“Well, I do. Do you know the Elvhen word for ‘scar’?”

“No.”

_“Era’mana’seithen.”_

“That’s a long word for something that has one syllable in Common,” he replied.

“Well,” explained Freya, “lots of Elvhen words are like that--not words, per se, but longer descriptive phrases. Our word for ‘scar’ translates directly as ‘history on the skin.’”

“That’s kind of a nice metaphor, actually,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “Doesn’t make them sound so bad.”

“I think so, too,” she replied. “And that one”--she ran her thumb down the line of sensitive tissue--”tells the story of the night we met.”

The sensation of smiling at her for the first time without feeling the tightness of suture across his flesh made the moment that much sweeter.

“Well," he told her, "I certainly wouldn’t trade that part of the story for anything.”

“Even your perfect, god-like facial features?” she asked, smirking.

“Even that.” He leaned in to examine the scar again, giving it a small rub. “Maker, it’s good to have the damn things out.”

“You could have had them out a lot _sooner_ if you hadn’t insisted on kissing me so vigorously.”

“Funny, I don’t remember hearing you complain much.”

“Well,” Freya said, looking defensive, “I did _try_  to protest, but your animal magnetism rendered me helpless.”

Cullen looked at her reflection beside him in the mirror and grinned.

“So, does this mean my lips are officially cleared for normal activity?”

“I suppose so. Why, you dying to take up the harmonica or something?”

“Not quite,” he told her, turning to face her and pulling her hips toward him. “I had something else in mind.”

His kiss against her neck was delicate at first, almost tickling. It evolved slowly into a languid, sensuous dance of lips and teeth as he moved up toward her ear. She had never felt the touch of his lips without the interruption of scratchy knots of nylon across them. Blessed Creators, they were soft…

Taking her hand, Cullen pulled her into the darkened bedroom, turning the light over the sink off as they left. The only illumination now was coming from the moon outside, which was intermittently diffused by passing clouds. He coaxed her toward the bed and backward onto it, climbing over her and bending down to lavish her skin with more sultry kisses. She tangled her hands into his hair.

A soft, repetitive buzzing noise on her nightstand broke the atmosphere, and they both turned to look at the glow of the screen of her cell phone. She reached for it, hoping it would be something she could ignore.

“Kirkwall Memorial” was emblazoned in white letters across the top of the screen. She furrowed her brow. What would they be calling for? She tapped the answer icon and held the phone to her ear, Cullen still hovering above her.

“This is Dr. Lavellan,” she said.

“Freya, it’s Malcolm with EMS. Dorian asked me to call you. We have a situation here, and we need some backup.”

“Mal, is everything okay?”

“I can’t explain it over the phone,” he replied. “Just… get down here when you can. Dorian says to come alone.”

The line went quiet, and Freya looked up at Cullen.

“That was one of our ambulance drivers,” she said. “The same one who brought you in, actually. They need me in the ER.”

He rolled to one side, allowing her to slide out from under him.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, repeating the same question he'd heard her ask into the phone.

“I don’t know,” she answered, rushing to her dresser to pull out a set of scrubs. She hurriedly undressed and pulled them on. “He wouldn’t tell me much.”

“Freya, I should come with you,” he said, worry etched on his face. “If it’s something involving me, or--”

“No.” Her voice was firm. She shook her head, walking back toward the bed. “Dorian specifically said not to bring you. That was for a _reason._ He must feel like you’d be in danger there.”

“But if it’s not safe for _me,”_ he protested, “how can it possibly be safe for _you?”_

“Sweetheart, please,” she said, putting a hand on his cheek, “You have to stay here. If this involves the Templars and you’re in that hospital… We don’t know how far they’re willing to go. I can’t let you walk into that. Please, _promise_ me you’ll stay here.”

Cullen sighed, his reluctance evident.

“Okay. I’ll stay here. But _you_ have to promise _me_  that you’ll come back to me safe.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said gently, giving him a kiss on the forehead. She grabbed her stethoscope off her desk and threw it over her neck on her way out the bedroom door. “Tell Bull where I’ve gone, will you? He’ll want to know something is up.”

* * *

 

Malcolm caught Freya’s arm as soon as she walked into the ER. He ushered her to an exam room at the end of the hall, one they only tended to use when the rest were full. There appeared to be a couple of other patients there, but they were nowhere near capacity.

“What’s going on?” she asked under her breath as they walked.

“Anomalies,” he said. “That’s all Dorian would say. They're in here. I have to go get back to the truck.”

Freya watched him walk away, then tapped on the glass door with a large number thirteen printed on it.

“It’s Dr. Lavellan,” she called. Dorian peered out from one side of the privacy curtain, then reached behind it to open the door and pull her in. Another of the doctors was in there with him, looking completely flummoxed.

“Freya,” he said, turning to her. “I’m glad you’re here. Pavus and I are baffled.”

She looked at the exam bed, where an unconscious man with dark hair and a muscular build was lying on his back. Dorian inched up the man's sleeve, revealing a tattoo nearly identical to Cullen’s.

“Can you fill me in, please?” she asked. “What was the nature of the patient’s arrival?”

“He came in on the stretcher like this,” Dorian told her. “His pressure is low, seems dehydrated. So I called in Dr. Petrie to ask permission to set an IV. That’s when things got... _weird.”_

“Weird _how?”_

Dorian pulled a metal tray off the counter behind him and showed it to Freya. A collection of catheters in various gauges were arranged on the tray in a haphazard manner. All of them had bent metal stylets still sticking through their centers.

“I can’t get a needle through his skin,” he said. “It’s like druffalo hide. And then I noticed the tattoo. Dr. Petrie knows about the incident last week, and he thought maybe you’d have more insight.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and looking just as confused as the two men. “When I set the IV on Cul--on the other _patient,_ I had no trouble.” She took the unconscious man’s hand and felt the skin in the crook of his elbow. It did feel tough to the touch, she noticed. Strangely so.

“Have you tried making a small incision through the epidermis and then placing the catheter through that, like you would for a central line? Seldinger method?” she asked. The two men looked at one another and then back at her, both shaking their heads. “Well, grab me some sterile gloves and a scalpel. Let's give it a whirl.”

Dorian assembled the supplies while Freya continued to question Dr. Petrie, tying a tourniquet around the man's upper arm.

“Any history on the patient?”

“Found unconscious in a back alley by a passerby. They called the ambulance, and here he is. That’s all I know.”

Dorian had readied the gloves on the counter, and Freya carefully slid them on, then accepted the scalpel handle and blade her friend had peeled open and offered to her. She took the instrument in her hand and leaned over the man’s arm again.

“Can one of you hold his wrist and pull his arm straight? And let’s get his skin prepped.”

Dorian pulled on a pair of exam gloves and gripped the man’s forearm, and Petrie carefully swabbed the area with iodine. Concentrating, she felt over the now yellow-tinged flesh until she located the man’s vein. She positioned the blade over it and carefully brought it down against his skin. With considerable effort, she managed to slice the point in, a rivulet of bright red blood falling from the tiny incision she had made. She wiped it with a square of gauze Petrie handed her, which he then took back and tossed into the biohazard bin.

With the skin barrier broken, she was able to immediately place the catheter, but there was a strange sizzling noise as she advanced it into the vein. She pulled the metal stylet out and the hub of the catheter fell to the ground, the end of it distorted and melted. A stronger torrent of blood cascaded out of the vein and pooled under Dorian’s palm. Within seconds, he had pulled away, crying out in pain and holding his hand out. The exam glove had dissolved in a wide circle, and there was a bright, angry burn blistering on his skin underneath.

“Dorian!” cried Freya, “What the fuck just happened?”

But before he could respond, Freya felt the scalpel yanked from her hand, and the unconscious man on the bed was no longer unconscious, but awake and wild-eyed with rage. He picked her up bodily and slammed her up against a wall beside the bed, his forearm against her chest, pinning her in place. Petrie backed away, but Dorian rushed the Templar, trying to pull him off of her.

“Go get help!” Dorian cried, looking back at the doctor cowering in a corner. He ran from the room, skidding on the tiled floor as he turned to dash down the hall. Dorian felt himself shoved away, the force behind the push taking him by surprise as he flew sideways into a heart monitor, his head smacking hard against it as he fell.

Freya looked up into the red-rimmed blue eyes of the Templar, her breaths coming in ragged, fearful gasps.

“Please,” she choked, “I want to help you. We’re trying to help.”

 _“Help?_ You can’t _help_ me,” he hissed madly through his clenched teeth, which were visible behind the curled lips of a sinister grin. “I’m _way_ beyond that, now.”

He brought the scalpel up and held it against her neck, the cold steel blade digging into her skin. The small trace of his blood left on the tip seared against her flesh.

“Please,” she begged in a high-pitched, pleading voice that didn't seem to belong to her. She closed her eyes as a tear fell over her cheek. “Please don’t do this.”

“FREYA!” Dorian shouted, “Duck. NOW!”

Her eyes flew back open as the noise startled the Templar and his grip loosened just a touch. Glancing over the man's shoulder, Freya saw the round barrel of a handgun. She dipped her head down quickly, covering it with her arms. The Templar turned just as the gun fired, and she saw his head snap backward as the back of his scalp exploded, showering her in blood and brain matter that stung and sizzled wherever it contacted her bare skin. She let out a sob as he sank to the floor in front of her, dead. Looking up, she saw a woman in a police officer’s uniform standing there, her gun still aimed at the soldier on the floor.

Freya raced to hop over the man’s body, slamming the knob on the sink and running water over her arms to rinse off the splatters of blood burning on her skin.

“Are you all right, doctor?” asked the officer, holstering her gun.

“I… no,” she said in a strangled voice, shaking her head emphatically. “But I’m... I'm not seriously injured.”

The woman pushed a button on a radio clipped to her shoulder and spoke into it, but between the ringing in her ears from the gunshot, the rushing water, and the confusing fog of shock that had settled over her brain, Freya didn’t pick up anything she was saying.

Dorian was at her side within seconds, blotting her arms dry gently with a paper towel and then pulling her into a hug.

“Freya,” he said, squeezing her tight. “Maker, I’m _so_ sorry. If I had _any_ idea, I never would have asked you to come.”

“It’s not your fault,” she told him, her breaths still coming in shuddering gasps. He wrapped his good hand around the back of her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he told her, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “I thought for a second… _Maker,_ Freya. I’m just so sorry.”

“Your hand,” she said, pulling back and looking at his palm. Angry blisters stretched over his red, shiny skin. “We need to go get this wrapped.”

“We need to get _you_ out of this _room_. Come on.”

“Stay close,” said the officer, looking up. “I’ll need to take a statement.”

She bent down over the body, brushing a stray strand of straight, fiery orange-red hair out of her face with the back of one wrist. Freya glanced at the blank eyes of the soldier staring at the ceiling, then turned away, her stomach lurching.

“Don’t touch his blood,” she warned the officer, and Dorian gently ushered her out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ll need to keep this clean and dry,” Freya was saying, wrapping a roll of gauze around and around Dorian’s open palm, which was smeared with a pale green cream. Her hands trembled violently.

“Freya, I know,” he said gently.

“No moving your hand much for the next few days. You’ll have to take some sick time.”

“I _know,”_ he said again. “I also know that _you_ know that I know all of this.”

She continued wrapping silently.

“You’re avoiding talking about it,” he continued, concern in his voice.

“What is there to say, Dorian?” she asked, looking up. “You saw everything.”

“I just… I just want you to know that I’m here, Freya. If you need to... debrief.”

“Not yet,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“All right.”

“So… I’ll call you in a prescription for the pain,” she went on. “We can pick it up in the morning. We’ll get you enough from hospital stock to get you through the night.”

He nodded, watching her finish.

“Whatever you think is best. Now let me look at your neck.”

She tilted her head up, and Dorian saw a thin line of blood from where the blade had just barely sliced into her. The skin around it was red and agitated, but it was minor.

He reached behind him to the tub of cream and picked up a small amount on the tongue depressor Freya had been using to dole it out. Spreading it onto a fingertip on his good hand, he gently smeared it over the small cut.

“A thousand years of medical advances and we’re still using elfroot for burns,” he said. “At least those primitive Dalish heathens gave us _something_ worthwhile.”

She snorted, and he was relieved to see the shadow of a grin on her face. He gave her a small, crooked smile back. There was a soft knock on the doorframe of the exam room they had holed themselves up in, and Freya looked up to see the police officer standing in the doorway, holding a notepad.

“Okay if I come in?” she asked. Freya and Dorian nodded. He wiped his finger clean on a paper towel and hopped down from the exam bed where he’d been sitting with his legs dangling over the edge.

“Go ahead and stay,” the officer said, looking up at him. “I’d like to hear your version of events, as well.”

She had a stern-looking, handsome face, but her eyes were sympathetic and kind as she gazed at the two of them. Dorian leaned back against the bed again as she walked further into the room.

“My name is Deputy Chief Aveline Hendyr. I oversee this precinct.” She held out her hand for them to shake.

“Can I ask what the head of our precinct was doing in the emergency room at the time this happened?” asked Freya, taking it and looking perplexed.

“Absolute coincidence,” she replied with a shrug. “I was here on a completely different matter. One of my officers took a bullet in the leg on duty tonight, and I was following up on him before heading home. That other doctor--what was his name? Patrick?”

“Petrie,” Dorian replied.

“Yes, him. He came barreling up to the triage desk shouting for them to call security, so I asked if I could be of assistance.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your officer,” Freya said. “Will he be all right?”

“I expect so,” said Aveline. “He should be out of surgery soon. They were very optimistic. Not a serious wound, but the bullet broke his femur. However, I’m not here to talk about that. Are _you_ all right?”

She looked between the two of them.

“We’ll be okay,” Dorian said. He glanced behind Aveline out the door, and a strange look came over his face. He nudged Freya. Following his gaze, she could see men in fatigues bearing a stretcher with a lumpy black body bag zipped up on top of it, appearing to be heading out of the hospital.

“Excuse me officer,” Freya said, brushing past Aveline and out of the room. She jogged up to the group of men, which was led by a familiar figure with greying hair peeking out from under his cap. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked loudly.

Colonel Samson whirled around, the men halting. Aveline and Dorian had come running up behind her, and she could hear Dorian let out an audible growl at the site of the Marines invading their hospital for the second time in as many weeks.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Rabbit,” he said with a sneer. There was a gasp of shock behind her at the slur. “Why is it that whenever there’s a Templar problem in this town, I find _you_ involved?”

“That's funny, I could ask _you_ the same question,” Freya said, narrowing her eyes.

“Who authorized you to take that body?” Aveline asked. “This was a crime scene. That man attacked hospital personnel!”

“This is a matter involving a member of a highly classified Marine division,” Samson said, with the air of someone explaining a very basic concept to a small child. “This is no longer your jurisdiction. The military will be conducting the investigation from here.”

“I haven’t even taken the victim’s statement!” Aveline protested, looking furious.

“That won’t be necessary,” Samson said, turning his glare back to Freya. “She seems fine.”

“And how did you know it was _me?”_ she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Lucky guess. You do seem to have a habit of putting your little bunny nose in places it doesn’t belong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than sit here and waste time on you again.”

He and his men marched out, leaving the three of them standing next to the nurse’s station, looking outraged. Freya turned and ran back down the hall to Exam Room 13.

It was spotless.

Everything--the bent catheters, the dirty scalpel, Dorian’s melted glove--all of it had been cleared away. The walls that had been spattered with blood and brains were as clean as the day they’d been painted, and the tile floor was still shiny from having been mopped with--judging by the smell--a strong bleach solution. Freya did see that there were several noticeable gouges in the tile from the pools of blood eating away at the finish.

“Well,” said Dorian, looking completely gobsmacked. “they sure work fast, don’t they?”

“They didn’t get all of the evidence though,” said Freya, a somewhat triumphant look on her face. She showed them the back of her scrubs, where the blood had sprayed in flecks and droplets along her shoulders when she had ducked and covered her head. “We still have a small sample.”

 

* * *

 

 

The door to the loft creaked open, and Dorian and Freya walked in together. Cullen thought he’d never seen a pair of people look so thoroughly exhausted. Bull immediately noticed the bandage covering Dorian’s hand.

“What happened, kadan?” he asked, jumping up from the sofa where they had been sitting in silence, waiting for news. “Are you all right?”

“It’s a burn,” Dorian said.

“A burn?” Cullen asked. “Freya, what the hell happened?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. I need to get these scrubs off first. Cullen, get me a ziplock bag, will you? One of the big ones?”

He followed her into her room and watched as she carefully peeled her scrub top and pants off, tucking them into the bag and sealing it. After she had dressed herself again, she and Cullen walked back out to the living room, Freya holding the clear plastic bag in her hand. She set it on the dining room table and sank into a chair.

She and Dorian recounted the tale to Bull and Cullen, who stared wide-eyed at each other and at the two storytellers as they talked. Freya got to the part where the Templar woke up, and found she couldn’t continue. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she replayed the encounter in her mind, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Freya,” breathed Cullen, moving over to her and enveloping her in a close embrace. “What is it? What happened?”

Dorian took over.

“He went after her,” he said, swallowing hard. “Held the scalpel to her neck. She was pleading with him not to hurt her and then… a police officer walked in. Thank the Maker she was there. I yelled at Freya to duck and then she… she shot him. Put him down like a rabid dog.”

 _“Shit,”_ said Bull, looking from Dorian to Freya.

“Maker,” Cullen said, looking down at her, at the small nick on her skin where the scalpel had cut into her neck. She was breathing hard, still fighting not to cry. He hugged her tighter. “Oh, _Freya.”_

A strange look came over Dorian's face, as if something had just dawned on him.

“The dog tags,” he breathed, putting his hand in his pocket. “I completely forgot… The man had these around his neck. I had slipped them off to read them better in the light, so I could make notes about his identification, and then when I went to go find Dr. Petrie, I put them in my pocket so they wouldn’t get lost.”

He handed them to Cullen, who lifted one arm off Freya to take them.

“Gregory Fletcher,” he read out loud, a shadow of anger on his face. _“Fuck.”_

“You knew him?” Bull asked.

“My neighbor on base. The one with the Mabari.”

“Do you think he was coming here to find you?” asked Dorian.

“Maybe,” Cullen replied, shrugging. “But whether it was to warn me or hurt me, I don’t know. Could even have been a trap for me, set by Samson. Maker _damn_ him. Fletcher was a good man.”

Freya let out a small noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Real gentleman, that guy.”

“Freya,” said Cullen, kneeling down next to her chair to look her in the eye. He smoothed her hair with one hand. “I know this must have been terrifying. But you have to understand that whoever--no, _whatever_ that monster was that attacked you, that was _not_ Gregory Fletcher. Not anymore.”

Her lip quivered as she held his gaze, and he felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched her fight to keep from breaking down.

“Let’s get you into bed, love,” he whispered, cupping her cheek in his palm. She nodded, sniffling loudly and brushing at her eyes. Cullen glanced at the other men, who were giving her a devastatingly sad look. He realized with a pang that this wasn’t the first time they had seen their friend go through the after effects of an extreme act of physical violence. Everyone in this room except him was reliving a traumatic shared experience he couldn’t comprehend.

“Dorian,” he said, turning his gaze. “Thank you. For taking care of her again.”

Dorian cleared his throat, looking down.

“Yeah, of course,” he said in a quiet, thick voice.

“We’ll see you two in the morning,” Bull said, rubbing Dorian’s back gently with his huge hand. “Try to get some sleep, okay, kid?”

Freya nodded as they turned to leave. She allowed herself to be led into the bedroom, feeling shaky as she walked.

“Do you want to wear these to bed?” Cullen asked, gesturing at the sweatshirt and leggings she had pulled on. She shook her head. She needed to feel the comforting warmth of his arms, his skin against hers. She didn’t want any barriers between their bodies tonight.

He helped her undress, throwing the garments aside onto the floor, then pulled his own clothes off and walked her to the bed, drawing the covers back so she could climb in. Sliding in next to her, he brought the covers over their bodies and folded her up in his arms. As she curled against him, he could feel the air in the room chilling a wet trail over his chest where her tears were dripping onto his skin.

“I never should have let you go alone,” he told her, stroking his fingers through her hair.

“No,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I’m glad you stayed. Samson was there again.”

 _“What?”_ asked Cullen, pulling back and looking at her tear-streaked face.

She nodded, realizing they hadn't actually finished telling the story.

“After I cleaned up Dorian’s hand, he and his men came and took the body. The police officer was _furious._ They completely destroyed the crime scene, cleaned it from top to bottom, didn’t want to take a statement from me. The only evidence we have of anything is those dog tags and the blood on my shirt.”

“I should have known he would be nearby. Probably waiting for me to show up so he could conveniently get me out of the way.”

“Which is _exactly_ why I’m glad you _didn’t_ come with me,” Freya said.

She remembered the blood sizzling against her skin, the way it had eaten through Dorian’s glove and the plastic catheter.

“Cullen, I’ve never seen _anything_ like this man’s biology,” she told him, fear widening her eyes as she thought about the ease with which he’d tossed Dorian aside, and the mad, red-eyed stare he’d given her. “His blood burned like acid against flesh, and it _melted_  anything synthetic. And the way he looked at me, the _rage_ in him...”

She shook her head, knowing she would never forget the way the scalpel had scratched against her neck, pressing dangerously into the vein she could feel pulsating wildly under her skin as her blood pounded through her body. He had been a good man, Cullen had said. That hadn’t been him, but something else.

A monster, he'd called him. Something those men had _created_.

“What are they doing to these people?” she asked, her voice broken by a sob.

“I don’t know, Freya,” he told her, pulling her against him again, kissing her forehead and breathing in the smell of her, thanking the Maker with all he had that she was here again, safe, in his arms. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. And when I catch up to Raleigh Samson, he’s not going to need a trial for his crimes. He’s going to need a fucking _casket.”_


	14. Safer, Just for One Day

Of course, it _would_ happen tonight.

Cullen silently cursed his body as he carefully shifted a slumbering Freya off his chest and hopped out of bed, jogging the length to the bathroom in a few long strides. He got the lid up on the toilet just in time.

Within seconds, he heard the rush of water from the faucet beside him. A cool cloth was quickly draped over his neck, and there was a light, soft hand at the small of his back.

“I’m here,” she murmured as his stomach heaved again.

“Freya,” he spluttered a few moments later, sitting back and wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. His chest heaved as he gulped air. “I’m so sorry. _Tonight_ , of all nights--”

“Shhh,” she said, handing him one of the little pink tablets and giving him a small smile as she reached to flush the toilet. “If medical crises only popped up at convenient times and places, I wouldn’t have a job.”

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, letting the gritty little pill dissolve on his tongue. There was a gentle sweeping motion across his brow as Freya took his temperature, and he could hear her click her tongue as the thermometer’s rapid beeping signaled another fever.

“Let me know when you feel like you can hold something down,” she told him, taking the cloth off his neck and wiping it over his forehead. He blinked his eyes back open, taking in her nearly-naked figure kneeling in front of him in the dim glow of a flickering candle she’d lit, knowing the harsh ceiling lights were too much for him during a bout of withdrawal. Drawing the cloth over his skin, she shivered a little as she worked.

“You’re freezing,” he observed with a frown.

“I’m built like a whippet. I’m always freezing.”

He watched as she stood and leaned over the sink, wetting the cloth again with fresh water. There was no self-consciousness in her movements as she tended to him, bare-chested and hair a tangled, frizzy mess, her eyes still puffy from crying herself to sleep.

He reflected silently on the surprising level of comfort and intimacy they'd reached with one another in just a few days, something he had never achieved with anyone else. It was strange to think about. He wasn’t sure if it was the nature of their connection--she had, after all, spent their first night literally putting him back together--or if it was simply good chemistry. Either way, it was somewhat of a comfort to him through the fog of his withdrawal, and he found himself fighting the urge to kiss her. Ordinarily, he would have given in to it, but having just emptied his guts into the toilet, well… he contented himself with reaching for her hand, instead.

“Think we’re safe to get your teeth brushed and get you back into bed?” she asked, sneaking her fingers into the spaces between his. He nodded, and she wiped his lips and chin gently with the cold cloth.

When his teeth felt clean again, he accepted another pill from Freya and downed it with a swallow of water, then allowed himself to be led shakily back into the bedroom.

“Why are you all the way over there?” he asked, watching as Freya curled up on her own pillow and burrowed under the covers.

“You’re hot. I figured you’d want some air.”

“I’d rather have _you.”_

She gave him a crooked grin and moved close, tucking herself against his body and laying her head in the little indentation between his shoulder and his broad chest.

“I feel terrible for waking you,” he told her, folding her up in his arms.

“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head and tickling his chin with her hair. “Detox takes a long time, and I don’t think anyone has ever actually quit lyrium altogether. We don’t really know what we’re dealing with. We could be in for a lot more of these long nights. But I don't mind. I’m not going anywhere, Cullen.”

“It’s not just that,” he explained. “I mean _all_ of it. You wouldn’t be involved in _any_ of this if it weren’t for me.” He paused for a minute, skimming his fingers over the curve of her waist. “Do you ever wonder what your life would be like right now if I’d ended up in some other hospital, some other doctor's exam room?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “Not for one second.”

She sat halfway up, one hand on his shivering chest.

“Cullen. If avoiding the last eight hours of my life means never having met you, not being here with you right now? _Forget it._ No dice."

She paused, looking him in the eye. The expression on his face was heartbreaking, fraught with unspoken guilt

"Do you know what was going through my head while he had that blade on my throat? All I could think was, ‘I didn’t tell Cullen I loved him before I left.’ There were so many times when I was with Karena that I found myself not caring if I lived another day. But last night, all I wanted was to make it through so that I could see you again. So to erase you from my life just to avoid that one moment? No. I’d battle a _hundred_ more Templars to keep that from happening.”

He swallowed back a lump in his throat, reaching up to cup her cheek in his quivering palm.

“You shouldn’t have had to try to fight off even _one,”_ he told her. “From now on, I don’t want you following up on anything weird by yourself. I know you’re not a damsel in distress, I _know_ , but you did say we would look out for _each other._ I can’t do that if you put me on the sidelines.”

She nodded at him.

“You’re right.”

Cullen arched an eyebrow.

“...You’re not even going to argue with me?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not after that. Cullen, he moved so _fast_. I had no time to react, and he was so _strong_... I know when I’m outmatched. We do things together, from now on.”

“Okay,” he said, stroking his rough thumb over her freckled cheek. _“Together.”_

She curled against his chest again, nuzzling into him and pulling the covers over her shoulder.

“I love you, Freya.”

“I love _you_ ,” she whispered, making a promise to herself never to leave his side again without saying those words.

 

 

* * *

 

Cullen slept like a stone. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Freya had snuck out of bed without waking him.

When he emerged from the bedroom after dressing for the day, he saw her sitting near the wall, scrubbing with vigor at the baseboards. Dorian was leaning on the counter, a cup of coffee in his good hand.

"Morning," Cullen said to the two of them. Dorian returned the greeting. Freya just waved from her seat on the floor, concentrating on her task.

“She’s cleaning the clean apartment,” Cullen said in an undertone. Dorian nodded.

“She does this whenever she’s rattled,” he whispered. “I think she just wants to feel like she has control over something.”

Cullen frowned at this sad revelation.

“I’m going to walk down the street to the pharmacy,” continued Dorian in a normal voice. “She called in some stuff for me. There’s still some coffee, if you want it.”

“Thanks, Pavus. Are you sure you don’t want someone to drive you?”

“Eh, I’ll be fine. It’s just a few blocks, and it’s a nice morning.”

He watched as Dorian grabbed his keys and waved goodbye to Freya.

“You want some help?” asked Cullen. Freya looked round at him.

“Only if you feel like it. I haven’t done the floors yet.”

She gestured to a closet door off the living room. Opening it, Cullen found a dust mop and pulled it out.

“I think cleaning goes better with music,” he told her, leaning the mop against the wall. “Do you mind if I put something on?”

She shook her head, dunking her sponge into a bucket of soapy water and wringing it out.

Cullen crossed to the sound system and turned it on, then leafed through a shelf full of record albums. Selecting one, he took it out of its sleeve and set it on the spindle, moving the counterweight and setting the needle on the edge of the record.

“I haven’t used one of these in a long time,” he said as it began to spin and issue little crackles of static. The familiar noise evoked nostalgic feelings of sitting in his house growing up, listening to his parents' records on their old stereo.

Grabbing the dust mop again, he began swiveling it over the wood floor as a mellow guitar riff oozed out of the speakers. Freya looked up a moment later at the sound of him singing along.

“I…” He put a hand to his chest. “I will be King. And you,”--he pointed his finger and brought his arm downward in an arc toward Freya--”you will be Queen.”

She smiled, feeling a slight blush creep up her cheeks as he serenaded her.

“Though nothing will drive them away…” He moved his hips in time to the music as he swished the dust mop back over to where she was sitting and held out his hand to her. “We can beat them, just for one day.”

She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, a glowing smile on her lips as he tipped the mop handle toward his mouth.

“We can be heroes, just for one day,” he crooned into the makeshift microphone. He had a wonderfully smooth, golden voice. He tilted the mop handle toward her. She shook her head emphatically.

“I don’t sing, Cullen” she said. “I sound like a dying halla.”

“Oh, I doubt _that,”_ he said, smiling at her. “Come on. Cause we’re lovers…”

She shook her head again as he thrust the handle back toward her.

“Come on,” he repeated over the music. “Humor me.”

She rolled her eyes resignedly.

“Yes we’re lovers,” she sang in a timid voice, barely audible over the music. “And that is that.”

“I can’t hear you, sweetheart, you’ll have to speak up.”

She took a hesitating breath, shooting him a nervous sidelong glance.

“THOUGH NOTHING,” she belted out off-key, “WILL KEEP US TOGETHER--”

“Yeah, there you go!” he exclaimed, nodding and bringing the mop handle back toward himself. “We could steal time, just for one day.”

They sang the next line together, his pitch absolute perfection and hers wildly off, smiling at each other as he made exaggerated air-guitar gestures like a rock star performing for a sold-out venue.

“We can be heroes, forever and everrrrr! What d’you say?”

“You should sing more often,” Cullen told her with a grin, pulling her waist toward his and planting a kiss on her lips. From a technical standpoint, her voice was awful, he supposed, but watching her let loose for a minute and smile when he knew what she was battling in her mind… that had been beautiful. “I loved it.”

“I just don’t want to assault anyone’s ears, so I keep it confined to solo concerts in the shower when I’m alone in the house.”

“People should do things because they enjoy them, regardless of what other people might think,” he replied with a shrug. He hummed the next few lines to himself, swaying a little with her in his arms.  “Had a feeling you were the household Bowie fan.”

“He’s only the most famous Dalish musician of all time,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Of _course_ I’m a Bowie fan.”

She pulled away, still smiling, and went back to her spot on the floor, dunking her hand into the bucket. He grinned and resumed sweeping, gesturing at the baseboard.

“You missed a spot.”

As he turned around, he felt something smack into his neck with a wet “splat.” He froze, cold suds dripping down his back. Retaliation crossed his mind for a brief second, but he shook his head.

“Nope, I totally deserved that,” he said, turning back around to toss the soaking wet sponge back to Freya, who had her tongue sticking out at him. He tipped her a wink and kept sweeping.

When the floors and baseboards had been swept and scrubbed to Freya’s satisfaction, Cullen stowed all the cleaning supplies away. His stomach rumbled.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, placing a hand on his tummy.

“I’m starving,” she said. “I didn’t have an appetite when I got up, but now I could eat a bronto.”

“Well, it’s close enough to lunch time. I’ll whip us up some sandwiches.”

Cullen walked to the kitchen and washed his hands, then began preparing their food, pulling out the wrapped meat and cheese from Ati’s shop and Freya’s hearty bread. As she was reaching for plates, Freya heard a buzzing noise coming from the dining room table. Turning around, she saw her phone lit up, an unrecognized number displayed brightly across the top.

“Hello?” she answered, frowning.

“Dr. Lavellan? This is Deputy Chief Hendyr, calling to follow up with you on our conversation last night after the incident at Kirkwall Memorial.”

Freya turned to Cullen, motioning at the phone against her ear. He set down the dull knife he’d been dipping into a jar of mustard and walked over to where she was standing.

“Yes, good morning, Deputy Chief.”

“Oh, just Aveline will be fine,” said the kind voice. “How are you feeling this morning, Doctor? How is your friend?”

“We’re okay,” she answered. “His hand will take some time to heal, but we’ll be fine.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that. I wanted to let you know that we found something this morning that may connect to the report you filed last night. An abandoned Jeep off the road up to Sundermount was radioed in a couple of hours ago. It was registered to a Gregory Fletcher, who appears to be a Templar soldier, according to records.”

“Was there anything of consequence in the vehicle?” Freya asked.

“Some military-issue weapons, which have been put in evidence. And a dog.”

“His dog was in the Jeep?”

Cullen’s eyes went wide.

“Yes," replied Aveline. "A female Mabari. She was taken to the city pound.”

“Will you have to turn the vehicle over to the Templars?” asked Freya, frowning.

“Yes, eventually,” Aveline said. She cleared her throat. “But you know how slow communication between departments can be sometimes. It may take a day or two for us to notify them. And in the meantime, it will be in the police impound lot, just, you know… _sitting there.”_

“I see,” Freya replied with a grin. “While I have you on the phone, I wondered if I could ask you a question.”

“Of course.”

“The blood on my shirt last night--” she began, but Aveline cut her off.

“Yes, I have someone I can recommend to help you get that right out. Let me give you her number. She’s _very_ thorough.”

She rattled off a phone number for Freya, which she scribbled on a dry-erase memo board on the refrigerator. As she hung up the phone a moment later, she turned to Cullen, who was on tenterhooks, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Is she okay?” he asked, looking worried.

“The Deputy Chief?” Freya replied, furrowing her brow.

“No,” Cullen said. “Andie, Fletcher’s Mabari.”

“Andie?”

“It’s short for Andruil.”

“Fletcher named his dog after an Evanuri?” she asked, surprised.

“His late wife was an elf,” Cullen said. “She died some years ago. Breast cancer.”

“Oh,” Freya said, looking away from Cullen’s gaze. After what had happened, she was still having trouble viewing the man who had attacked her as anything but a mindless monster. These humanizing facts made her feel uncomfortably sympathetic toward him, and she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Did she say where they took her? The dog?”

“She’s at the pound,” she replied. “She was in the Jeep when they found it this morning. Aveline also gave me the number to someone who may be able to analyze the blood on my shirt. And she dropped a hint that we may be able to get to the police impound lot and take a look at that Jeep if we do it quick.”

“I’ll pack these sandwiches to go,” he said. “Can… can we go visit Andie?”

“Cullen, really,” Freya said with a smirk, “I know you’re a dog person, but is that really our priority today?”

“I _know_ this dog, Freya. She’ll be confused and upset without Fletcher, and in a strange place... A familiar face might make a big difference for her this morning.”

She sighed, realizing she wasn’t going to be able to argue. Not when he was giving her that look, with his big brown puppy dog eyes and a sad little pout.

“Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. I guess we’re going to the pound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, AU David Bowie is Dalish and I will fight anyone who tries to say otherwise.


	15. Clues

The din of barking dogs bounced and echoed off the walls of the Kirkwall Humane Society’s kennel area. 

A young Qunari woman in scrubs embroidered with the shelter’s logo was leading them down a long row of large dog runs. Dorian wrinkled his nose at the mingled smells of wet dog, bleach, and kibble. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d let them talk him into coming along.

“Here she is,” said the shelter employee, stopping in front of a cage near the far end of the row and gesturing with one hand. “How did you say you knew her?”

Peering into the kennel, they saw a blue-grey dog with a huge head resting on an equally gargantuan set of paws, her eyes downturned morosely. She had a broad white stripe down her nose, which twitched as she took in their scents.

“My neighbor’s dog,” Cullen called over the noise. “He passed away last night.”

At the sound of Cullen’s voice, the dog’s head snapped up, and she cocked it to one side, looking at him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the young woman. “We legally have to hold dogs for three days before they’re allowed up for adoption, just to make sure nobody claims them. But after her hold period, you could come back. If you’re interested, that is.”

Andie had leapt up onto her feet, standing on her hind legs and placing her paws on the kennel door, toes poking through the criss-crossed chain link. She stood taller than Freya.

Dorian had his arms crossed, giving Cullen an “over-my-dead-body” sort of look, but Cullen was ignoring him completely.

“Hey, girl,” he said through the door of the cage, smiling at the dog. She gave a happy bark, her little nub of a tail wiggling with glee. He turned to Freya, beaming. “I think she remembers me!”

As if to agree, Andie barked again, coming back down on all fours and spinning in a circle. Her tongue lolled out of one side of her mouth as she turned to Freya, her large doggy grin displaying all of her sharp, dazzlingly white teeth. She sat, facing the elf, and raised one paw as if to shake her hand.

“Oh, _sure,”_ huffed Dorian, who was having to try extra hard to actively dislike the dog after this display of affection. “Be adorable, why don’t you?”

Freya smirked.

“So we can come back to see her after her hold is up?” Cullen asked. “When would that be?”

“Saturday,” replied the young Qunari. “The adoption fee includes shots and an exam, and a voucher to get her spayed if she isn't already. Mabaris are popular, though, so I’d get here as soon as you can. When we open, if you can swing it.”

“And when is that?” asked Freya. Cullen turned to her, looking surprised and ecstatic. _“If_ we decide to come back,” she added, the corner of her mouth still curled up into a grin.

“Ten o’clock,” she said. “Does the dog have a name?”

“Andruil,” said Cullen, stepping back. “But she answers to Andie.”

The dog barked loudly again, standing and wagging her little tail some more.

“We’ll be back,” he whispered to her through the door of the kennel. “We’ll spring you out of here, girl.”

“Don’t go making any promises,” Dorian admonished, looking annoyed. “Just because I said she’s cute doesn’t mean she gets to come home with us.”

They turned to walk back down the row of kennels, and they could hear her whine loudly at their retreating backs.

“Aww, listen to her,” said Cullen, turning to look over his shoulder. “Poor thing.”

As they walked back out into the quiet parking lot, their ears all ringing from the chorus of barking inside, Freya leaned over to Cullen.

“Bull likes dogs, too,” she whispered, winking at him. He grinned, opening the driver’s side door to the Bronco for her to hop in.

“I really feel like we should discuss this,” said Dorian a moment later, leaning in from the back seat as they drove to the impound lot. “A dog is a big responsibility. And _four_ of us live in that loft.”

“We can all talk about it together when Bull gets home from work,” Freya said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “I know you’re reluctant.”

“I just… they _smell._ And they drool. And they ruin all your shit.”

“She’s not a drooler,” countered Cullen, turning his head. “And they don’t smell if you bathe them. And they only destroy your shit if you leave it where they can get to it, in which case that’s on _you,_ not the dog. Besides, she’s smart and she’s a trained military Mabari. Protection, scent detection. She could be very useful.”

Dorian huffed, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded over his chest and muttering something that sounded like _“We’ll see.”_

Cullen pulled Fletcher’s dog tags out of the pocket where he'd stuck them that morning. He turned them over in his hands, thinking about his friend and everything that had happened. Had he been coming here to find him? And if so, to what purpose? 

As sunlight bounced off the shiny metal, he noticed that the back of one of the tags had been badly scratched. He brought it close to his face, squinting and holding the tag toward the windshield so he could see it better. They weren’t haphazard scratches, as he had thought at first glance. As he tilted the tag, he could see that they formed a single word, gouged into the steel:  
  


_SPARE_  
  


“Freya,” he said, looking up with a furrowed brow, “I think Fletcher left us a clue.”

 

* * *

 

“Can I see some ID?” asked a bored-looking officer behind the desk at the police impound. Freya nodded, digging her driver’s license out of the little plastic window in her wallet. She handed it over to him.

“Lavellan,” he muttered, looking at his list of vehicles. “Oh. It looks like Deputy Hendyr called in permission earlier today. You the vehicle’s owner?”

“No. Next of kin,” she said, looking as grief-stricken as was possible, given the fact that the dead man to whom the Jeep had belonged had threatened her life.

“Sorry for your loss,” he said, sounding like he couldn’t actually care less. He pointed out the window toward the corner of the lot. “It’s back there. The spaces are marked. It’s number G-17.”

He held out a set of keys that jangled from a round disc bearing the emblem of the USMC. A bottle opener not unlike the one she had on her own keychain hung among the various keys, emblazoned with the Hanged Man logo. 

He’d liked beer, she thought to herself. Like a real person. Like _her_. Her favorite brewery, even. 

Suddenly she felt like she might genuinely cry, and she took the keys from the officer, offering a thick, quiet “Thanks,” before turning back to the lot with Dorian and Cullen. 

They drove the Bronco down the row to a black Jeep Wrangler. Cullen held his hand out for the keys and then headed straight toward the rear of the vehicle, where a hardshell cover concealed the spare tire mounted on the back. He leafed through the keys until he found a small one that would fit in the cover’s lock, then popped it off.

It looked like an ordinary spare tire. He reached up and ran a finger over one of the lug nuts holding it onto its mount.

“Tire iron,” he said to himself, unlocking the doors with the key fob and heading to the passenger seat to rummage through the glove box for the owner’s manual. He flipped a few pages, seemed to find what he was looking for, and then reached under the passenger seat. After fumbling around for a moment, he brought out a black metal tire iron.

Freya and Dorian watched as he made short work of the lug nuts, his biceps bulging as he muscled them off. She caught Dorian's eye and they silently exchanged an appreciative look with identical smirks mirrored on both of their faces.

Cullen yanked the tire off the back of the Jeep, and as he did so, a small leatherbound notebook fluttered to the ground. He let the tire lean against the bumper as he bent down and picked it up. Scribbled handwriting filled the pages, and his eyes widened as he leafed through them, catching words and little bits of phrases.

_ More soldiers missing this week... Rutherford didn’t show to his assignment. Knocked on his door, no answer… Another incident on base, two Marines injured… Overheard Samson mention something strange. "Project Ruby?" _

“He knew,” he said, looking up. “Before I even left, he knew something was up.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen pored over the book for the rest of the afternoon, reading Fletchers notes.

“He got suspicious around the same time I did,” he told Freya, who was sitting next to him on the couch, knees curled against her chest. “So he started journaling everything as it happened. The disappearances, Lieutenant Carroll’s outburst, my desertion. It’s all here. He had Andie try to track me, even. And then when I broke into Samson’s office, he went to go see what had happened, and he overheard Samson mention the project. He was on the same trail.”

“Wow,” Freya said. “So you do think he was coming to see you?”

“I dunno. I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s getting harder and harder to make sense of as it goes on. His thoughts get more scattered. It does say he was in an accident during training and spent a couple of days in the infirmary. He doesn’t remember anything about it. Just woke up in a hospital bed.”

“Well, _that’s_ not suspicious at all,” said Dorian from the kitchen. “Hey, Freya… what’s this number on the fridge? You just labeled it ‘BLOOD.’ Which, if I'm being honest, is a little unnerving.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat. “I almost forgot. That’s the number the Deputy Chief gave me, to call about having the blood on my shirt analyzed.”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and crossed to the kitchen. 

“Who is it?” Dorian asked.

“I have no idea,” said Freya, shrugging. “All she said was that she was ‘very thorough.’”

She dialed the number and held the phone to her ear. It rang three times, and then a soft, cheerful voice answered.

  
“Kirkwall Crime Lab, Forensic Biology Department. Merrill speaking.”


	16. Though I Am Flesh (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And you can use my skin  
> to bury secrets in,  
> and I will settle you down."
> 
> \--Fiona Apple, "I Know"

“So what can they even test for on dried blood?” asked Dorian, watching as Freya carefully unwrapped the bandages covering his burned hand. They were sitting alone together in the hall bathroom after dinner, him on the closed seat of the toilet and her perched on the edge of the bathtub across from him.

“Not much.” she replied, a slight frown across her mouth. “They can examine the DNA and maybe do some toxicology. But since it’s soaked into fabric, it’ll be tricky. I’m supposed to drop it off at the lab tomorrow and she’s going to see what she can do.”  She examined Dorian’s palm.  “Well,” she said, “the blisters are gone, but it’s still pretty angry. How’s the pain?”

“Fine, thanks to the power of opiates and a best friend who can prescribe them.”

Smirking, she began to slather more of the pale green elfroot paste over the burn before rewrapping it.

“So, this whole dog thing,” Dorian said, wrinkling his nose in a slight wince as she pulled the bandage snug. “How do you feel about it?”

“Oh, still a bit on the fence,” she replied. “Cullen is obviously really keen on the idea, but you’re right. Dogs aren’t exactly low-maintenance. And she’s going to eat fifty pounds of food every couple of weeks.”

“Bull seems _thrilled_ with the idea,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice. “He’s always liked Mabaris. And it’s not like I _hate_ dogs. I just… well, if I really wanted to live with one I’d have gotten one a long time ago, you know?”

Freya nodded.

“I hear you. And your opinion truly does matter to me. You were here first, after all.”

“I appreciate that,” said Dorian, giving her a small smile. “But I guess where I was going with this was that if it means that much to Cullen, and you and Bull are both game, well... “ He paused, heaving a sigh. “I mean, he _does_ raise a good point about the protection thing, and I know I would feel better about you two doing your Nancy-Drew-and-Frank-Hardy routine with some extra security around.”

“Are you saying you’re on Team Mabari, Dorian?” She was giving him an unreasonably satisfied grin. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes. I guess I am. But Maker help me, if she chews on my Mahabis--”

“It’ll teach you not to leave them lying around the living room? Was _that_ the end of your sentence? Because that’s the only logical way to complete that thought.”

“The dog isn’t even here and you’re already taking her side,” he said, throwing his hands up.

“All I’m saying is, some of us keep our shoes in our bedrooms where they _belong.”_

“That’s because you don’t wear shoes unless you’re forced to,” retorted Dorian.  “And even then, you don’t put them on until the last possible minute. Which means they stay in the car half the time.”

“Exactly,” Freya said brightly, screwing the cap back onto the tub of elfroot paste.

Cullen’s bespectacled nose was still buried in Fletcher’s notebook when they emerged from the bathroom. Bull looked up from his seat on the recliner, where he was also reading. His appeared to be a thick legal brief of some sort. Tossing it onto the table, he looked up at Freya and Dorian.

“How’s the hand looking?” he asked.

Freya shrugged.

“Still pretty pissed,” she replied. “But better than last night.”

“Well, improvement is improvement, right?” answered Bull. He stood and stretched, rolling his horned head to one side and then the other as he did. “I gotta get off my ass for awhile. I’ve been sitting all damn day. Anyone up for a walk down the block to get some frozen yogurt?”

“I’m game,” Dorian said. Freya eyed Cullen, who still hadn’t looked up once from the notebook.

“I think I’ll pass,” she said.

“You’re turning down the opportunity to go someplace where they have frozen chocolate confections literally _on tap?”_ Dorian asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, I think I am,” she sighed.

“Well, now I’ve seen everything,” chuckled Bull, shaking his head.

Freya flopped down onto the sofa next to Cullen as they left. He shifted slightly to make room for her, but otherwise barely acknowledged her.

“Hey,” she said, nudging him.

“Mmmm?”

“You’ve hardly come up for air all night.”

He closed the book and took his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“For all the good it’s done,” he said, an edge of frustration in his voice. “I can’t make head or tails of most of the last of his notes. It’s all a jumble. Diagrams and acronyms that I don’t recognize. Words and sentence fragments. He was slowly coming unhinged. Whatever they did to him, it tore his mind apart.”

Freya gazed off into nothing as he talked, her thoughts wandering to his words from the previous night.  

 _Whoever--no,_ what _ever that monster was that attacked you, it wasn’t Gregory Fletcher anymore._

He was quickly becoming her least favorite subject to discuss. As Fletcher the Man was slowly revealed to her through the little snippets of his life she had seen, she found herself slowly beginning to unravel him from Fletcher the Monster, recognizing them as two separate entities--one born, one created. But it was still so fresh. She could still recall with perfect clarity the madness in his blue eyes, the smell of his breath, the bite of the scalpel blade against her throat. She raised a hand absently to the burn on her neck.

Cullen looked up to see her touching her throat with that thousand-yard stare. It was an expression he recognized all too well, and seeing it here on Freya's face like that dropped sadness like a brick into the pit of his stomach.

Setting the notebook on the coffee table, he scooted over to Freya and took her hand, pulling it away from her neck.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight,” he said, looking her in the eye. She nodded, breaking her gaze and dragging her eyes back to his. He reached out and tucked her soft red curls behind her ear, letting his finger trace down the edge from the point to her lobe. It made her shiver a little, and his lips arched into a ghost of a grin. “Come on.”

He got up from the sofa, holding his hand out to help her up. Weaving his fingers into hers, he pulled her toward the bedroom.

“You can’t _already_ be tired,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Who said anything about sleep?”

 

* * *

 

 

A few moment later, Freya was pleasantly surprised to find she had not been led to the bed, but to the bathroom, where Cullen had leaned on the edge of her large soaking tub and turned the tap.

"I think a nice, hot bath is in order," he said.

She watched as he plucked a bottle of fragrant salts off a shelf and sprinkled them in under the hot running water, and swirling vapors filled the room with the smell of embrium blossoms.

Freya made to pull her shirt over her head, but Cullen stood and approached her.

“May I?”

She nodded, and he undressed her, peeling each layer off gently and pausing to lay soft little kisses on her skin here and there as he worked.

Holding onto her hand to steady her, he helped her step over the rim of the tub. She eased herself down into the hot water and folded her arms along the edge, looking up at Cullen.

“Are you going to join me?” she asked.

“Am I invited?”

“Of course you’re invited,” she replied, smirking. “Now _strip.”_

She watched with her head cradled in her palm as he began taking his clothes off. He looked down to see her ogling and snorted.

“I feel so objectified,” he said as he kicked his jeans off. Freya nodded enthusiastically. Chuckling, he pulled his underwear off and carefully stepped in behind her, leaning back against the warm ceramic. He felt the water rush around him as she shifted herself so her back was pressed to his chest, and he folded his arms around her.

“How did you know baths were my happy place?” she asked, propping a foot against the rim of the tub.

“Lucky guess,” he replied with a shrug. “Just seemed like you could use a little relaxing after the night you had last night.”

“You’re sweet,” said Freya, leaning her forehead against his chin, stubble scraping lightly against her skin. “I feel kind of selfish not having asked this before now, but… are _you_ okay? You lost a friend last night.”

“I think I lost him a lot sooner than that,” said Cullen quietly, sweeping hot water over her body with his palm. “What they did to him… I just can’t imagine what could turn such a decent man into _that._ And it makes me wonder how many of my other friends are being made lab rats as we speak. But I meant what I said--let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. I brought you in here to get your mind away from all that.”

He ran his hands over her freckled shoulders.

“Would you like me to wash your back?” he asked, picking up a sea sponge and a little bottle of liquid soap from a basket that hung from the side of the tub.

“If you like.”

Leaning forward, she exposed an expanse of pale skin tinged pink from the heat of the water and steam, divided down the middle by the hard ridges of vertebrae visible underneath. A couple of ringlets that had freed themselves from the messy knot on the crown of her head hung between her shoulders. He ran the sponge across her back in little circles, watching the way the suds slid down over her flesh in little rivulets. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she tilted her head to one side, and the noise stirred something in the pit of his belly.

He thought back to the previous night, the way her kisses had felt for the first time without stitches pulling tightly across his lip.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me wash the front, too?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. Smiling, she turned around, sliding up onto her knees. Water slid over her flat belly and dripped over the curves of her little breasts and off her nipples, and it was all he could do not to take her right there in the bathtub. Instead, he discarded the sponge and brought his soapy hands up to her collarbones, rubbing them over her front, cupping and kneading her breasts in his slippery palms.

She leaned over him, bracing herself against the back of the tub as she covered his mouth with hers. Hands slid from her breasts down the subtle curves of her waist, gripping her buttocks as a moan from his throat vibrated against her lips. She rubbed herself remorselessly against his thigh.

Well, if _that_ was what she was after…

Fingertips slid along her legs, up toward the junction where they met.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice husky as his hot breath brushed against her lips.

“Gods, yes,” she whispered back. A little gasp escaped her as his fingers found their way into her entrance, and she rocked back onto her knees, her chin tipped back as she rolled her hips against his hand. He watched her chest slowly rise and fall as she bit her bottom lip. His other hand snaked its way up to her breast again, working her nipple in between his thumb and the edge of his palm. She reached between his legs and brushed her fingertips along his erection, which was especially buoyant underneath the warm water.

He squirmed a little. No way his resolve was going to hold if she kept that up.

“Freya,” he said softly, “I think we should get out of the tub.”

“Why?” she asked, that familiar, impish grin curling her lips. She stroked him with a firm palm this time, and a purring sound rumbled up from his throat.

“Because,” he said, returning her smile, “I have plans, and they require you to be out of the water if I want to breathe.”

“Hmm,” she replied, her fingers still wrapped around him. She gave her wrist a little twist, taking far too much pleasure in the look that crossed his face when she did. “Breathing _is_ important. But I'm having so much  _fun.”_

“Yes, well,” he said breathlessly, clearing his throat, “I promise what I have in mind is _equally_ fun.”

She gave him a few more torturous strokes and then brought her hand back up to his cheek, dripping hot water over his skin as she kissed him again, languid and teasing.

“You know, I really shouldn’t reward this kind of behavior,” he told her as she broke away. She smiled, then stood and grabbed a towel as she stepped out of the tub.

“You started it.”

He pulled the drain, grinning to himself as she disappeared around the corner of the doorframe and back into the bedroom. Wrapping his towel around himself, he followed, flipping the switch in the bathroom to turn the light off. When he turned to look up at Freya, he stopped in his tracks.

_Maker’s fucking breath._

She had illuminated one of the bedside lamps, casting warm yellow light over her naked body as she lay on the bed, her head tilted toward him with that wicked grin still painted on her lips. One of her hands was busily working between her legs, fingers swirling in practiced motions. He felt his erection give an involuntary jerk, the tented towel around his waist swaying a little with the motion.

“Were you going to participate, or just stand there and watch?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

Truth be told, it was a difficult decision in the moment. But he threw his towel aside and walked quickly to the bed, climbing on top of her and covering her mouth with an urgent kiss that crashed against her smiling lips.

He batted her hand away from between her legs, as though admonishing a naughty child with her hand in a cookie jar.

“You’re giving yourself a head start,” he told her. “That’s cheating.”

“Who makes up these rules?” she asked, allowing him to pin her arms up onto the pillow on either side of her head.

“Me, just now,” he replied, dipping his head to kiss her collarbone. Her giggle transfigured into a sigh and then a moan as he dragged teeth along her skin, his hard length pressing against her belly. She watched as he leaned back, eyes wandering over her as his hands roamed across her chest to cup her breasts again.

The pink tinge was slowly fading from her skin, making the freckles that dusted her face and shoulders stand out against her pale complexion more clearly. He loved them, every last little one. They were like little stars scattered across her skin, constellations he was memorizing as he studied and learned the map of her body. He slid down, leaning over her again and trailing reverent kisses more softly along her shoulders. The heat from his lips raised goosebumps on her flesh as he moved down to her breasts, catching one of her nipples in his mouth and sucking gently at it as he rolled the other between his fingers.

Freya squirmed underneath him as his mouth worked more forcefully, drawing another deep moan from her lips. She felt the moisture beginning to pool between her legs, heat blooming from her core. Pulling off her nipple loudly, he brought his lips back up to her ear.

“I want to taste you, Freya,” he told her, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to make you _shake.”_

She nodded her permission, feeling suddenly dizzy as his eager mouth began moving southward again, laying more adoring kisses down the valley between her breasts and across the flat plain of her belly. Strong hands gripped the pale flesh of her thighs, nudging them apart. Leaning forward, she watched, her breaths coming in deep, ragged inhalations. The scrape of his chin against the soft flesh of her inner thigh made her jump, and the feeling of his full lips and wet, hot tongue so close to her throbbing sex ripped a groan from deep in her throat.

He had been waiting for this for days.

Savoring each little sigh and moan and jerk of her body, he took his time lavishing her with more unhurried kisses and gentle nips of his teeth, touching her everywhere but there. The heady smell of her arousal heightened his desire as he breathed her in, and his hips bucked against the sheets almost uncontrollably. She caught the small movement, his body framed between her knees, muscles taut with anticipation, and she thought she might explode if he didn’t put his mouth on her soon.

“Cullen, please” she whispered, weaving her fingers into the curls at the back of his neck, still damp from the bath. He took her cue and spread her apart with one hand. She watched as he licked his lips, as if she was the most delicious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

He drew his tongue along her velvet skin, his touch feather-light, almost imperceptible. She gasped, and he rolled his hips against the bed again, unable to stop himself. Tucking a pair of thick fingers into her, he dragged his tongue across the swollen bundle of nerves between her folds. Within a few short moments, his whole hand was slick with nectar.

 _"Fuck,_ you taste good," he murmured. 

Pulling her clit gently between his lips, he gave her a long, slow suck, his tongue gently flicking against her. The soft whimper it drew from her lips made him throb, and for one brief moment, all he could think about was how much he wanted to plunge his cock into her. He took a deep breath and then let it out in a moan against her so that vibrations of pleasure shot through her as he strummed her firmly with his tongue. She writhed beneath his mouth, and the edge of an intense orgasm began buzzing warmly through her groin. Thrusting up against his lips, she panted his name.

And then, just when he had beckoned her right to the brink, he pulled away, skilled fingers no longer stroking her insides.

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked down to see him wearing an evil sort of grin, drawing his fingers lightly over her sex.

“Why did you stop?” she rasped, a slight whine to her voice. His flushed lips parted in a broad smile, and he shrugged.

“Revenge, mostly.”

He didn’t have enough time to dodge before her pillow caught him full on the side of the face, and he laughed at the growl of frustration that issued from her lips.

Leaning over, he kissed her, still smiling, and she wrapped her slender calves over his legs. She pulled in a sharp intake of breath as he slid his length slowly into her entrance. She had been wound tight by his teasing, and her engorged walls gripped him so snugly that it was only with some degree of difficulty that he was able to push himself fully inside her.

 _“Fuck,”_ he breathed again as he filled her.

Her hands were moving over his body, stroking and gripping and caressing him, knowing he craved the feeling of her touch as much as the release--maybe more, even. He had given up one addiction only to happily resign himself fully to a new one. 

Covering her lips with his again, he slid his tongue into her mouth as he rocked into her. She could feel his pulse quickening against her chest and between her legs, a low rumble in his throat swelling into a lustful crescendo.

He rutted against her, rolling his hips so he grazed her swollen clit with each thrust, and in a few brief moments she was teetering right back on the edge again, whispering pleas for release as her nails bit into his shoulderblades. He slowed his body and slid himself out from between her thighs, maddeningly backing her away again.

“Just one more taste,” he husked against her ear, fingers already burying themselves in her heat.

Inching back down the bed, Cullen licked the nectar off her slick folds, and with a thrill of satisfaction he saw that her thighs were now shaking violently with each movement of his tongue. Drawing the tight little knot of nerves between his lips again, he worked her forcefully, ready to give her the deliverance she was now begging him for in hoarse murmurations.

Warm vibrations bubbled through her body as the first wave hit her, and she called out his name in a choked cry as her nerves lit up all at once and her body went into a freefall of ecstasy. Fingers clenched in his hair, she bucked against him as he continued stroking and sucking at her, riding it out with her as she clenched around his fingers.

If she had ever come that hard before in her life, she couldn’t remember when. Strings of curses in Elvhen and common issued from her lips as she curled forward, her clit twitching between his lips.

He was aching to plunge back into her, desperate for release. As soon as he felt her insides quieting, he raised himself onto his knees and mounted her again. She was still tight as a drum, but the warm gush of her orgasm had slicked her walls so that he slid in easily, letting out a growl as he pressed against her surfaces. His palm brushed against her cheek, cupping her jaw.

Turning, Freya drew his finger into her mouth and sucked it clean, the slightly honeyed taste of her own arousal spreading over her tongue. It was the last push he needed to fully come undone, and with a couple of frenzied thrusts he felt his orgasm hit, blindsiding him with the sheer force of it as he jerked inside her.

He roared loud and long, ramming into her so hard that the bedframe crashed into the wall over and over again, shaking her framed pieces of art off-kilter on their hooks. She pushed her hips upward, rolling them against his eagerly as he wrung himself out, reveling in the sight of him as she watched him lose control.

He was breathing in short, ragged gasps now, and he collapsed against her, pressing his dizzy head into the crook of her neck with a long moan as the last of his seed spilled out. They were both quaking, legs still tangled and hearts racing.

Gods, she _loved_ the way he fucked her, but in some ways she loved this part even more--feeling his weight pressing comfortably against her body as they both came down, exchanging light touches and peppering one another with soft kisses.

Stroking her hair, he propped himself up so he could look into her eyes. The dimpled grin she gave him was mirrored on his lips, and he gave her nose a little nuzzle with his as she sighed contentedly.

The clicking sound of the front door opening reached their ears.

“Good timing,” Cullen said. "A minute earlier and we'd have given them quite a concert."

“Ha. They could probably hear _you_ from the lobby,” she replied, and his cheeks turned a deep shade of pink.

Freya giggled, and Cullen could feel it from inside of her--a delightful, slightly tickling sensation against his length. He gave her one last soft kiss on the lips before sliding out of her and rolling over onto his back, sweat shining on his skin.

A few seconds later, there was a firm knock on their door and Dorian’s voice called to them from the other side.

“Put your pants back on. We brought you some fro-yo.”


	17. Shelter

Merrill Sabrae was one of the tiniest elves Cullen had ever seen. And that was saying a lot, given who he was sharing a bed with. But unlike Freya, Merrill’s petite body was softer and more buxom, evident even underneath the large white lab coat that shrouded her small frame when she greeted them in the windowless basement laboratory of the Kirkwall Crime Lab. 

She greeted them each with a firm, professional handshake and ushered them to a small office to talk. 

“So, let’s see this sample, then,” she said kindly, gesturing for them to have a seat. Freya pulled the ziplock bag out of a small cooler, handing the evidence to Merrill. Splatters of blood on the fabric were visible through the rapidly fogging plastic.

“Hmmm,” she said, turning the bag over in her hands and then setting it on the surface of her desk. “And it’s been kept cold?”

“Yes,” Freya replied. “It’s been in the freezer since the night it happened.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Less than 48 hours.”

“Well, it’s not much, but I’ll see what I can do. At the very least, I should be able to look at the DNA for anomalies, see if anything comes up.” She leaned against the desk, hands folded in front of her. “This probably goes without saying, but this is all off the books. Deputy Chief Hendyr filed a report, but it seems to have, er… _disappeared_. So this won’t be connected to an active case. I’m going to have to be pretty sneaky to get it done.”

Freya opened her mouth, looking apologetic, but Merrill waved her hands and interjected.

“Not that I mind! The Deputy Chief is an old friend of mine, and from what she said, you went through quite the ordeal. Everyone is skeptical of the Templars, but nobody has ever been willing to question them outright. I respect that you’re not afraid to do so. I’m happy to help.”

“Well,” Cullen said, shifting a little in his seat and reaching into his pocket, “if you’d like to be of even _more_ help…”

He was holding out another plastic baggie, this one containing two small blue pills. Freya was giving him a surprised look. She hadn’t realized this was part of the plan.

“What’s that?” Merrill asked, taking the bag and examining the tablets.

“It’s lyrium,” he replied. Merrill’s eyes went wide.

_“Lyrium?”_ she asked. “Is it even legal for you to _have_ this?”

“Well, no,” said Cullen. “Not anymore. But they didn’t exactly give us instructions on what to do with spare lyrium. We’re not supposed to have leftovers.”

“And you want me to do… _what_ exactly?”

“Analyze it. Tell us what’s in it. Freya’s done a lot of research on it and can’t find the chemical composition.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be hard to do, but…” she trailed off, looking at them.

“We know what kind of a risk you’re taking helping us,” Cullen told her earnestly.

“I’ll have to do it after hours.” Merrill replied.

“If you need us to compensate for your extra time--”

“No, it’s not that,” she cut in, shaking her head and pocketing the baggie. “If the Deputy Chief thinks there’s something to this, I want to help.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to get results?” asked Freya.

“Probably a couple of weeks, at minimum. But I’ll let you know as soon as I have information.”

“We really appreciate you doing this,” Cullen said, standing. “If you’re successful, it could be a big help in exposing whatever is going on.”

Merill nodded, extending her hand again for them to shake.

“Happy to help,” she said sweetly, giving them a small smile. “I’ll be in touch soon. And do be careful, in the meantime, won’t you? I’d like to have someone to actually discuss results _with_ when the time comes.”  
  


By the time they got back to the main floor of the crime lab, a steady rain had begun to fall. It built into a downpour as they made their way back to the apartment, the low rumble of thunder echoing through the streets as water streaked the windows and the sky grew dark. Not for the first time, Freya was grateful she had chosen a building with underground parking. Dorian was already parked on the recliner with a mug of hot tea when they came through the front door, watching over the back of the couch through the windows as lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the scalloped edges of ominous-looking stormclouds.

“Looks like Bull might be camping out at the office tonight,” Freya said, looking at the weather radar on the television.

“Most likely,” Dorian sighed. “This is supposed to last all night.”

Cullen took his boots off and crossed to the sofa, watching the storm warnings crawl across the news ticker at the bottom of the screen.

“There’s enough hot water in the kettle left over if you want something warm to drink for yourselves.” Dorian gestured his bandaged hand toward the kitchen, and Freya set about fixing an additional pair of mugs. 

She took a seat next to Cullen on the couch, handing him his tea.

“Do you get many tornadoes in the Free Marches?” he asked, eyeing the sky outside.

“No, not really,” she replied, shaking her head. “There was a microburst near campus when I was at KU, but that’s about it as far as I can recall.”

“I remember that,” Dorian said. “Broke the back window out of my car. I slept right through it, though.”

“You’d sleep through a _bombing,”_ snorted Freya, shaking her head. 

Dorian shrugged and nodded in agreement.

“Probably.”

“We have tornadoes pop up throughout Ferelden quite a bit,” Cullen said. “Every spring and fall. Everyone in Honnleath I knew growing up had a basement or a storm shelter of some kind. We did drills at school, too.”

“Were you ever in an actual tornado?” asked Freya.

“Just once,” Cullen said. “My brother and my dad and I were standing out on the porch watching the storm build. The sky went a really pale grey-green, and it was like all the color had been washed out of the landscape. And then we saw the rotation beginning, and the sirens started blaring. We all ran like hell down to the storm cellar with my mom and my sisters. The next day, my dad’s truck was nowhere to be seen. Turns out it had landed in a neighbor’s wheat field.”

“Wow,” said Dorian, his eyebrows raised. “Who says nothing exciting happens in Honnleath?”

“That’s one word for it,” Cullen said, smirking.

The storm grew worse as evening approached. Outside the window the wind roiled the sea, tossing the boats in the marina around and driving strong waves that crashed over the docks. Rain hammered against the plate glass, the din almost drowning out the television.

There was a blindingly bright flash followed by a loud crack, very close, and then the television screen went black and all the lights went out. Cullen’s rapid breathing could be heard above the sound of the pounding rain, and Freya groped in the darkness for his hand.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She could feel his quickened pulse through his fingertips.

“I’ll be fine. Just startled me."

Dorian had darted up out of the recliner and was busy in the kitchen. A flashlight beam clicked on, bobbing and shining around the room as he looked for matches and candles.

Once Cullen had calmed a bit, Freya helped Dorian light pillars and tealights around the apartment, illuminating everything in dim, flickering yellow light. If it hadn’t been for the violent wind and rain ravaging the city, it would have been beautiful--almost romantic.

“Bull’s got power at the office,” Dorian said, typing away at his phone. “Must have been close to us.”

“Yeah, my dad’s been texting from the shop. He’s got power, too. Says to stay away from the windows.”

“This whole _apartment_ is windows,” Cullen said. “But the bedrooms would probably be safer.”

Dorian and Freya agreed, and they each gathered a few candles to take with them into their respective rooms.

As they opened the door to Freya’s room, a strong, acrid smell hit their nostrils.

“What is that?” asked Cullen, wrinkling his nose.

Freya bustled over to her desk, holding out her candle. Her laptop was sitting on the surface of the desk. She followed the cord to the outlet in the wall and saw that it was blackened and melted, a thin stream of smoke rising from it. The lightning strike had created a surge. Yanking the cord out of the wall and then the computer, she flipped the laptop open and attempted to boot it up. Nothing. The smell of the burnt plastic and silicon components stung her nostrils.

_“Shit!”_ she hissed. “It’s fried.”

“Was there anything vital on it?”

“All my notes on lyrium and your symptoms were in there. And all my research on Templar legislation. I’ve got to start over from scratch now.”

She slumped down on the bed with an angry growl, her head in her hand. Cullen gently took the candle she was holding and set it on the nightstand.

“I’m so sorry. What horrible luck.”

“I should have unplugged it. Gods, how stupid of me.”

“Mistakes happen. Nothing we can’t recreate.”

She flopped backward, staring at the warm light dancing on the ceiling.

“Oh well,” she sighed. “Merrill will probably have more useful information on the lyrium, anyway.”

“Hopefully so.”

Cullen lay back next to her, crossing his wrists behind his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to have her analyze your pills?” Freya asked, turning toward him.

“I wasn’t even sure I was _going_ to,” he replied, shrugging. “Wanted to see if I felt like we could trust her first.”

“You still could have told me about it. If we’d been caught with that in the car, we’d both be in jail right now. Do you understand what that would have done to my career? Getting put in jail for possession of a controlled substance? I’m in enough hot water as it is.”

Cullen swallowed hard. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“You’re right,” he said, looking over at her. “That was completely reckless of me. And inconsiderate. I'm sorry, Freya." He paused, frowning. "I guess I kind of forget that the other people involved have lives outside of this.”

“So do you.”

“How do you figure? I don’t have a career to _lose_ anymore. I have nothing on the line, nothing to go back to when all of this is over.”

“Of course you do,” Freya told him, furrowing her brow. “You have friends, and a home. And _me.”_

Cullen gave her a sad smile.

“I hope you’re still willing to stick around when this is all said and done. Sometimes I feel like all I’m doing is endangering you and all these other people. I wonder if you’ll think it was worth it when we get to the other side of this.”

“If it means you’re safe, and we can help keep other people from… _whatever_ they’re doing? Of course I will. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, Cullen.”

She nuzzled into his chest and felt his strong arms wrap around her, holding her close. Listening to the gale outside, she thought about all those little homes in Ferelden, built to withstand the worst nature could offer. If Cullen was any indication, the people of Ferelden must be made of stronger stuff, as well. He always felt… _safe_ somehow. _Solid_. 

The storm they had walked into was likely to get stronger before it calmed, but lying here in his arms, she felt like there was nothing she couldn’t get through as long as she had him. And she pitied anyone who thought they could take this away from her.

  
Just let them _try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry chapters are coming more sporadically now. I'm in my first trimester of a pregnancy and most days I am just so nauseated and so drained that writing isn't enjoyable or even possible. I should be back to a more frequent/regular schedule once I get into my second trimester and I get my superpowers back. Thanks for bearing with me!


	18. Andie

“Do you think she’ll like purple?”  
  
Cullen was sitting in a hard plastic chair in front of a desk at the shelter, nervously fidgeting with the collar he had spent thirty minutes choosing at the pet store the night before. A silver tag hung from it, flashing in the light of the fluorescent bulbs above their heads. ANDIE was engraved in large letters on the front.  
  
_I think she’s a dog and probably has zero concept of aesthetics or what colors she does and doesn’t like_ , Freya thought to herself, amused. But outwardly, she just gave him a reassuring smile and said, “I’m sure she will.”  
  
A young dwarf was typing away at a computer in front of them, preparing all of the adoption paperwork for them to sign. They had showed up right as the shelter opened on Saturday morning, as instructed, and Cullen had hastily filled out an application.  
  
“Er... don’t you want to meet the dog first?” the dwarf had asked, looking skeptical. Once the situation had been explained, however, he had been a little less suspicious and was hurrying things along most helpfully. He handed them a small stack of paperwork from his printer.  
  
“Just need you to initial each page and sign the last one. Basically the contract says you’ll take care of her properly--keep her inside, provide her with food and water daily, proper veterinary care, all that jazz. You can ignore the part about getting her fixed since she’s already been spayed. And if she doesn’t work out, you’re promising to bring her back here rather than selling her to someone else.”  
  
Cullen scanned the contract, jotting a messy _CSR_ on each page as he flipped through. He scribbled his signature on the last one, then handed the adoption counselor the last of his cash for the adoption fee.  
  
“Alrighty, Mr. Rutherford. She’s all yours! I’ll go get her from her kennel.”  
  
As the young man left, Cullen turned to Freya, his face a mix of delight and anxiety.  
  
“I hope she likes it with me. I hope… I hope I can give her a good home, even in the midst of all this... _other_ stuff.”  
  
“She’ll be well loved,” said Freya encouragingly, squeezing his hand. “And we’ll all help make sure she's taken care of, no matter what.”  
  
Cullen nodded. The sound of doggy toenails clicking on linoleum echoed down the hallway next to the reception area, and he stood up, looking eager as the huge Mabari came trotting up with the dwarf. She gave a happy bark as she approached, and Cullen beamed.  
  
“Hey, girl!” he said, bending down to ruffle her ears in his hands. “You’ve been sprung.”  
  
He tried to fasten the purple collar around her neck, realized it was too tight, and pulled it off to adjust it. Andie sat patiently and gazed up at him, tongue lolling happily out of her mouth. When he had it right, he clicked the buckle closed and clipped a matching leash to it.  
  
The three of them walked out of the shelter, Andie plodding along in the middle and looking back and forth between the pair of them with a grateful expression.  
  
“We should celebrate,” Freya said as she opened the door to the Bronco. Andie leapt in without hesitation. “Who’s up for ice cream? I know of a place that does special puppy cups.”  
  
As it turned out, bacon-flavored ice cream was a big hit with the Mabari, and sitting outside the shop watching her lick the little styrofoam cup clean gave Cullen and Freya a chance to talk about how things were going.  
  
“I’m still so fucking mad about my laptop,” she said, frowning. “I can’t believe all that work is just gone, like that.” She snapped her fingers angrily.  
  
“I know,” said Cullen sympathetically, “You’d put so much time into it already. But this time, I can help.”  
  
Freya had dipped into one of her credit cards to purchase herself a new laptop and a second one for Cullen to use. They planned to spend that evening going back through the records on congressional sessions to search for the members who had pushed for the Templar program to be funded. It was dull work, but a handful of names had been coming up over and over again, and Freya felt in her gut that there was something there.  
  
When they entered the loft a little later, Bull and Dorian were sitting at the table having a late lunch. Andie wagged her tail excitedly, pulling at the leash. As soon as Cullen unhooked it, she bounded over to the table and sat directly in front of Dorian, giving a happy “WOOF” to greet him. Dorian held his sandwich aloft protectively.  
  
“You’re not getting any, if that’s what you think,” he said, looking at her with a disdainful expression. The huge dog cocked her head and gave a small whine. Dorian rolled his eyes and peeled off a small piece of turkey, tossing it to her. She caught it in midair and wolfed it down in a fraction of a second. “There. Now go away.”  
  
Andie happily trotted around the table and sat in front of Bull, giving him the same happy “WOOF” and looking expectantly at what was left of his sandwich. The Qunari laughed.  
  
“You little scam artist,” he said, a definite note of approval in his voice. He gave her the last bite, which disappeared with record speed, and the dog trotted happily away from the table and went to explore the rest of the apartment.  
  
“Everyone was so worried about _me_ spoiling her,” Cullen said, giving Freya a look. “But between the three of _you_ , she’s had bacon ice cream and turkey sandwiches for lunch.”

Freya laughed.   
  
“Well, she is kind of hard to say no to,” she admitted.

Another low whine, this one louder and longer, issued from Freya’s bedroom. Cullen and Freya exchanged a puzzled look, then followed the dog into the room. They walked in to find her sitting in front of Freya’s desk, nosing the edge of it and sniffing the air. She reared up onto her back feet and put her huge front paws on the desk’s surface, picking something up with her mouth. She brought it to Cullen with another sad whimper.

It was Gregory Fletcher’s notebook.   
  
“Oh, Cullen,” Freya said sadly. “Look.”   
  
“Here, girl,” Cullen said softly, kneeling down and holding out his hand. Andie dropped the leather journal into his open palm. “I know. You must miss him. You’ve lost so much.”   
  
The dog nosed the notebook.   
  
“What is it?” Cullen asked. He flopped it open to a page near the back covered in Fletcher’s rushed, untidy scrawl, and Andie sniffed it. She lightly nudged Cullen’s hand with her muzzle. He flipped the page. Andie nudged him again. He turned another page. Andie raised her paw and set it on the notebook, whining insistently.

Cullen looked at the page.   
  
“I know, girl,” he was saying, “He was trying to tell us something. I just don’t know what.”   
  
Freya peered over his shoulder, reading. There were lines scratched messily in red ink, connecting different words. 

_ Isana. Lyrium. Templars. PPT. _   
  
Below these words, he had written two cryptic sentences:   
  
_ They’ve changed the formula. _

  
  
_ It goes all the way to the top. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi, I'm back!


	19. Indictment

The subpoena came on Monday morning. A loud knock echoed through the apartment as they were finishing breakfast.   
  
Freya, still in her pajama pants and slippers, looked through the peephole to see a sherriff’s deputy standing in the hall, and she hastily turned to wave at Cullen and motion for him to head to the bedroom, out of sight.   
  
“Morning, officer,” she said as she cracked the door open. “What can I do for you?”   
  
“Ma’am,” the deputy said in a polite but professional voice. “I have subpoena paperwork here, requiring you to appear in court. The court date and time, as well as a summary of the case to which it pertains, are all included in these documents. I also need to inform you that if you fail to appear, you will be held in contempt of court, and a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Do you understand everything I’ve relayed to you?”   
  
“I do,” said Freya, accepting the thick packet of papers the deputy handed her.   
  
“Do you have any disabilities or language barriers that would require the court to appoint someone to assist you in reading or translating these documents?”   
  
“No, officer,” she replied, shaking her head.

“I just need you to sign this affidavit confirming receipt of these documents.”

She hastily scribbled her name on the piece of paper he handed her, then thanked him and  made to close the door. The officer put out a hand.

“One moment, ma’am. I’m also looking for another party connected to this case, in order to serve him papers as well. Do you know a man by the name of Cullen Stanton Rutherford?”

“I treated him at the hospital where I work,” she said.

“Is that the extent of your relationship with Mr. Rutherford?”

“I would prefer not to answer any further questions pertaining to the case without the presence of my lawyer,” replied Freya firmly.   
  
“That's your right,” the deputy answered. “However, if you do see or speak to Mr. Rutherford, you should inform him that it would be in his best interest to appear at his court date to answer to the charges being brought against him.”

“If I see him, I’ll pass it along.”

“Have a good day, ma’am.”   
  
She closed the door and locked the deadbolt with a click, watching through the peephole to make sure the deputy was in the elevator with the doors closed before she gave Cullen the all-clear.

“Well,” he said, glancing at the paperwork, “we knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time.”   
  
“I’d better let Bull know,” she said, tapping away at her phone screen. “We need to know what to do next.”  
  


 

*          *          *          *          *  


 

Bull’s office was across town, closer to the heart of the city in Lowtown.  Krem met them at the front desk, gratefully accepting the styrofoam container of food that Cullen handed him.   
  
“Thanks, I’m starving,” he said, opening the lid and breathing in the aroma from the steaming mound of sauce-coated chicken. “Bull is expecting you.”   
  
The Qunari was leafing through a thick legal brief when they arrived. Looking up, he gestured to the two seats in front of his wide desk.   
  
“Have a seat,” he said. “Is that Seheron food I smell?”   
  
They passed him another styrofoam box and a cardboard takeout carton full of rice, and Freya dug out a pair of chopsticks from the plastic bag she was holding. Each of them got themselves situated with their lunch, and Freya set the stack of paperwork she had received on Bull’s desk. He flipped through it, chewing on his food as he read.   
  
“Well,” he said around a mouthful of chicken, “this looks fairly straightforward. They want you to present evidence of his symptoms and, reading between the lines, defend your diagnosis.”   
  
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she replied with a shrug. “I’ll just play dumb.”   
  
“Don’t expect it to be that simple. They’re going to grill you on your education and your work as a doctor, and they’ll really hammer you for information about Cullen on the night he came in. They’ll try to catch you on little details that differ from what you charted. They want you to crack. You're an expert witness. If your testimony falters, Cullen's done for.”   
  
“No pressure though, eh?” Cullen said, trying unsuccessfully to lighten the mood.

She gave him a worried look.   
  
“What about Cullen? Since they couldn’t find him for a subpoena, does he have to show up?”   
  
“It really is in his best interest to do so,” Bull answered. “If he doesn’t, they’ll just get the judge to issue a warrant for his arrest. He won’t be able to go anywhere without fear of getting arrested. Best to just take this head on and get it over with.”   
  
“Can you take the case?” asked Cullen. “I know it’s asking a lot, and I can’t exactly pay you right now--”   
  
“Of course I’m representing you, Rutherford” replied Bull, waving his hand. “Freya’s on the line here, too. You think I’m gonna let someone else have responsibility for this? Don’t worry about payment, we’ll work something out. You can do the household dishes for a year.”

 “Deal,” Cullen said, sounding relieved.  
  
“In the meantime, we’re going to have to sit down several times and go over and over and over this case. You’re going to get tired of talking about it, but we need to make sure your stories align with the official documentation for that night. I think our photos are good enough to prove that your car was sabotaged, and that even if you had been off lyrium, you still would have wrecked. But without Freya being able to confidently back up her charts, that won’t be enough to prove you weren’t breaking the law.”  
  
“What if I’m asked to submit to a blood test now, for evidence?” asked Cullen.  
  
“Let ‘em take it,” Bull said, shrugging. “Won’t give them anything. You’re not a Templar anymore, so you aren’t required to take it. That was true from the moment you were discharged. And they can’t prove jack shit about the night of your wreck, since Freya didn’t order any testing that night. But if they want you to give them a little blood now, go ahead and comply. It’ll make you look cooperative without giving them an edge.”

 “I wonder why Dorian wasn’t served,” Freya said. “I would think they would want him to talk, too.”  
  
“They may yet, give it another few days. They could still be compiling lists of witnesses.”  
  
“He’ll be so nervous,” she replied, worry evident in her voice. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”  
  
“You let me handle Dorian,” Bull said. “He’ll be fine. We just need to make sure that whatever he says matches your testimony.”  
  
“Should we bring up Fletcher at all, since Freya and Dorian both worked on him, too?” asked Cullen.  
  
“Hell no.” Bull shook his head emphatically. “Keep it to Cullen's diagnosis and the accident. You don’t want to go tipping them off that you’re snooping around into Project Ruby. The less _they_ know that _you_ know, the better. Now, I need to make copies of this paperwork, and I need you to email me any photos or copies of charts that you have. Anything you think could be useful to the case. I have a client coming in about fifteen minutes, but I’ll get started on this stuff in between my other cases today.”  
  
“Sure, whatever you need,” Freya said, hurriedly finishing her tofu dish and gathering their empty containers.  
  
“I can’t thank you enough for this, Bull,” Cullen said, a grateful expression etched on his face. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”  
  
“Don’t mention it. I wouldn’t want some cheap ass, incompetent attorney taking your fate into their hands.” He stood up, his horns inches away from brushing the low drop-tile ceiling.  
  
“Besides,” he said, clapping Cullen on the shoulder, “this is just what you do for family.”  



	20. Unknown Elements

Another week went by without much progress. Cullen and Freya had been busily scouring the internet for clues, still going over congressional records and researching the terms Fletcher had outlined in his journal.  
  
“I have no idea what ‘PPT’ could mean,” said Freya, looking defeated. “I mean, there are lots of acronyms I’ve found, but none of them fit. Nothing related to the military or pharmaceuticals that would make sense outside of the rest of a sentence.”  
  
“Any medical terms?”  
  
“Postpartum tension? That’s about all I can think of.”  
  
“It’s the file extension for PowerPoint,” Dorian offered.

“You think someone put together a Project Ruby _slideshow_?” asked Cullen, smirking. “That seems… unlikely.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m just trying to _help_.”

“Let’s table that one for now,” said Freya. “What about Isana. Any luck there?”  
  
“I dug up a little information on the company itself,” Cullen replied. “It’s apparently the fastest-growing pharmaceutical company in Thedas, despite only producing Lyrium.”  
  
“Military contracts will do that for you.”  
  
“Rather. They aren’t publicly traded yet. I did find out that the CEO is a dwarf called Bartrand Tethras. Before owning Isana, he was a venture capitalist who funded several startups that have since dissolved.”  
  
“Why does that surname sound familiar?” Dorian asked.  
  
“The family is old money, and semi-famous,” Cullen replied. “Bartrand’s dad made his fortune as a wildly successful boxing promoter, but he ended up being disgraced after it was found out he was fixing matches.”  
  
“I don’t follow sports,” said Dorian. “So that can’t be it.”  
  
“Isn’t there a Tethras at the Kirkwall Tribune?” asked Freya.  
  
“That would be the younger brother,” said Cullen, nodding. “Varric Tethras. Lots of articles with his byline if you do a search. They don’t seem to get on well at all. Big fight at an Isana publicity event a couple of months ago, where Varric accused him of caring more about money than people. He’s written some op-ed pieces criticizing the Templar program, as well.”  
  
“Hmm,” said Freya, looking thoughtful. “That could be helpful information to keep in our back pocket. You know, in case we ever want to go full exposé on this whole Project Ruby thing.”  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
Freya’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she leaned to one side to pull it out. She didn’t immediately recognize the number.

“Hello?” she asked into the phone, her voice cautious.  
  
“Yes, is this Freya Lavellan?” asked a familiar, kind voice.  
  
“It is.”  
  
“This is Merrill, from the forensics lab. I… have some news. But I would rather deliver it in person, if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“Oh,” Freya said, sitting up straight. “Yes, that would be fine. Where would you like to meet?”  
  
“I can come to you, if you like. Tonight after I get done with my shift?”  


*          *          *          *          *

  
Merrill arrived just as they were finishing dinner. She bustled in at Freya’s invitation and shut the door behind her, taking it upon herself to lock the deadbolt.  
  
“Erm,” Freya said, looking a bit apprehensive. “Are you concerned you were followed?”  
  
“I don’t think we can be too careful here, after what I've found,” Merrill replied, turning to see the three men at the table, looking expectantly at her. “Hello,” she said, nodding. “I’m Merrill, for those of you who haven’t met me.”  
  
She looked hesitantly at Bull and Dorian.  
  
“Are you comfortable discussing this with everyone present?” she asked Freya in a low tone.  
  
“Oh, yes,” replied Freya. “Absolutely.” She gestured toward the sofa, inviting Merrill to sit. She did, setting a folder in her lap.  
  
Freya took a seat next to her, and the others came over to find seats, as well. Merrill pulled out a sheet of paper with diagrams of molecules drawn out on it.  
  
“How’s your chemistry?” she asked, passing the paper to her.  
  
“Fuzzy,” Freya admitted, looking at the chemical compounds.  
  
“That’s the chemical composition of Lyrium.”  
  
“Well,” said Freya, thinking, “I don’t recognize some of these abbreviations. But it looks organic.”  
  
“It is,” Merrill said, nodding. “But there are elements in it that I have never seen before. That’s what the strange abbreviations are. I just labeled them Ux1 and Ux2 as a placeholder. U for ‘ _Unknown_.’”  
  
Her eyes were wide, almost fearful.  
  
“This is not a molecule that exists on our planet. And the isotopes of Ux1 and Ux2 are unstable, meaning--”  
  
“It’s radioactive,” breathed Freya, looking up at Cullen.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“So… I’ve been taking something alien _and_ radioactive?” asked Cullen, the color drained from his face.  
  
“It would appear so,” Merrill said gravely. “And that isn’t all.”  
  
She pulled out another sheet of paper, this time colorful photos of what appeared to be slides she had observed.  
  
“This is what I was able to get from the blood samples you had,” she said. “I reconstituted the blood in saline to look at the cells. You can see that there was significant degredation, but you can still clearly make out the red and white blood cells.”  
  
“What’s this?” asked Freya, pointing to a red crystalline structure. “Was the sample contaminated with something?”  
  
“No,” Merrill answered, shaking her head. “That’s _part_ of the blood. It’s hard, like a mineral. But the blood droplets were all full of it.”  
  
“Any idea what it is?”  
  
“It contains the unknown elements, but in an _entirely new compound_ that appears to react with the blood, creating these crystals. It’s not the same as the Lyrium Cullen gave me.”  
  
“ _They’ve changed the formula_ ,” Cullen said, remembering the line from Fletcher’s journal. “They’re not stopping with alien and radioactive. They’ve… I dunno, _mutated_ it somehow. And now they’re experimenting with it, feeding it to the Templars.”  
  
“But where did it come from?” asked Dorian, the shock evident on his face. “You’re saying these elements are… _extraterrestrial_? Where on earth did Isana get the material _from_?”  
  
Bull leaned forward in his chair.  
  
“A meteor, maybe?” he offered. “Those occasionally crash down. Could also be that we’ve been sending rockets to go looking for the stuff and nobody’s heard about it. I wouldn’t put anything past the government.”  
  
“ _Wherever_ it’s from,” Merill said, “it’s definitely not something they want people digging into. And they’re certainly not going to give up that information willingly.”  
  
“Well,” Freya said, “if we need some advice about aliens and government conspiracies, it just so happens I know exactly who we can talk to.” 


	21. The Professor

Kirkwall University was a moderately-sized campus north of the Hightown neighborhood on the east end of the city. Its buildings were beautifully old-fashioned, crafted from the native limestone that was the bedrock of the Free Marches. Cullen had only seen photos of the school, his alma mater’s rival, and they certainly hadn’t done the place justice. He admired the intricately-carved stonework decorating the outside of the anthropology building as he and Freya climbed the steps to the entrance.

“Is the whole campus this pretty?” he asked.

“Most of the buildings are,” answered Freya. “The old ones, at least. Some of the newer ones, though. _Woof_.”

“That bad?”

“Wycome Hall looks like a parking garage.”  
  
He chuckled, holding open the door as she walked in ahead of him. She led the way to a wide stone staircase leading up to the second level.   
  
“I can’t believe he’s still in the same office,” she said, rounding the corner to a long hallway. “This was where he was when I was in college. He was just a T.A. then.”   
  
They approached a closed door with a narrow vertical window inset. A plastic plaque outside the door read:

 

SOLAS RUDOLF, PhD

 

Freya knocked firmly.  
  
Whoever Cullen had been expecting to answer, it wasn’t the elf who opened the door. He was tall and lean, with a long, pointed nose. His head had been shaved completely bald, and Cullen found it hard to guess how old he was. Were it not for his stern expression, he would have been handsome.   
  
“Hello, Doctor Lavellan,” he said with a nod, sounding surprisingly formal for someone who knew Freya on a friendly level.   
  
“Afternoon, Professor Rudolph,” Freya replied, smiling. “Long time no see.”   
  
“Indeed. Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable.”   
  
They seated themselves in chairs opposite the professor, Freya sitting up just a little straighter than usual and modestly crossing one leg over the other. It was quite apparent that, though Freya had long since graduated and Solas had only been a T.A., some of the old habits from their teacher-student relationship had stuck.   
  
“So, I understand you have questions related to… _extraterrestrial entities_?” asked Solas, folding his hands in his lap.   
  
“Yes,” Freya replied, nodding. “Well, more sort of a general curiosity as to what you know. Or… _believe_.”   
  
“I didn’t get the impression you were interested in that particular field of study. At least, you weren’t several years ago. What was it you called it in my class…?”   
  
“I believe my exact words were ‘ _I'm not paying three thousand a semester to listen to utter nug shit_.’”   
  
Solas chuckled.   
  
“That’s it,” he said, and Cullen could see that he was amused, rather than angry. “Well, to be fair, you were there to learn about the anthropology of the Dalish, not my ‘wild theories,’ as you called them. I now know to keep my personal opinions on otherworldly entities to myself in class, unless they are asked for. Though I do still maintain that they are closely related subjects.”   
  
“So you teach cultural anthropology and aliens are just a… what, like a hobby?” asked Cullen. Solas gave him an appraising look.

“Oh,” Freya said, “sorry, I should have introduced you. This is Cullen Rutherford. Cullen, meet Solas Rudolph, doctor of anthropology, professor, and extraterrestrial enthusiast.”

The men shook hands over the surface of the desk, Solas immediately folding his hands back into his lap once the handshake was over.  
  
“I suppose you could put it that way,” said Solas with a slight shrug. “Though as I said, I believe the two to be intrinsically linked.”   
  
“How do you figure?” asked Cullen.   
  
“I wonder,” Solas began, looking from Freya to Cullen and back again, “what you know of the realm known in Thedosian mythology as ‘The Fade?’”   
  
“I know that it was seen as the realm of demons and spirits,” said Cullen. “And that there are said to be places where crossing over is possible.”   
  
“Indeed,” said Solas with a nod. “That is the generally accepted explanation of these beliefs. Between the Fade and our world exists a Veil, which can be breached in certain places by certain individuals. On the other side lie creatures who feed on our vices to lure us into temptation, along with the spirits of souls doomed to wander the void ad infinitum. Utter poppycock, of course, meant to scare people into adhering to the Chant or whatever other oppressive religion dominates society at the time.”   
  
“So you don’t believe in the Fade,” Cullen said.   
  
“Oh, hold onto your butt,” said Freya with a smirk. Solas gave her a crooked, forbearing sort of grin in spite of her vaguely mocking tone.   
  
“I believe,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that there is indeed another plane of existence that one can access through rifts in the barrier between. However, I do not believe it is full of demons and spirits. I believe ‘The Fade,’ as we call it, is an alien world, another planet. Breaches in the Veil are, in fact, rifts through spacetime which create portals between our worlds.”   
  
“That’s a new one for me,” said Cullen, eyebrows raised. “So then you believe the so-called demons and spirits are… what?”   
  
“E.B.E.s,” replied the elf, standing to cross to a bookshelf lining one wall of the office, running his slender pointer finger along the spines. “Extraterrestrial biological entities. In a word: aliens.”   
  
He seemed to find the book he was looking for, and pulled it out, leafing through. He set it down on the table, open to an illustration of an ancient Dalish elf reaching out to touch what looked like a glowing green forcefield.   
  
“The Dalish wrote extensively on these rifts, and the beings they encountered beyond. They describe them as spirits possessing supernatural powers, but of course, they had limited vocabulary for this sort of thing. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic to those who cannot understand it.”   
  
“Isn’t that a quote from science fiction?” asked Freya, giving him an skeptical grin.   
  
“Regardless of the source, it accurately depicts what an ancient civilization would likely ascribe to beings that are far more advanced than they are.” He leaned forward, fixing Freya with his stern gaze. “In any case, why the sudden interest in theories you are so hesitant to open your mind to?”   
  
“Let’s just say that recently I’ve had my mind pried open a little further than I’d like on the matter,” she replied. “Any theories on government involvement with these tears in spacetime?”   
  
“Oh, plenty,” Solas said. “But they’ll all probably make you think I should get fitted for a tinfoil hat.”   
  
“We’d be interested in hearing your thoughts,” Cullen said, sounding more sincere than Freya had managed throughout the whole conversation.

“I believe,” said Solas, “as do many other 'extraterrestrial enthusiasts,' that the Thedosian government has been aware of the _true_ nature of these rifts for decades. And that they have been utilizing alien resources and technology to achieve their own ends.”

“Ends such as... ?”  
  
“Oh, various and sundry. Travel through time and space, medical advances. Technological and biological weaponry.”   
  
“Super soldiers?” asked Cullen.   
  
“That _specific_ theory has not entered into my own discussions on the matter, but I can see where the idea has merit. Certainly there may be applications of alien tech and biological anomalies that would benefit such a project.”   
  
He paused, thinking.   
  
“Would this line of questioning have anything to do with the Templar program?” he asked, seeming to add it all up.   
  
“It may,” answered Freya. “Why? Do you know something?”   
  
“No,” Solas said in a sincere tone, shaking his head. “But a military operation shrouded in such mystery as the Templar Division would make a prime suspect for the sort of thing you’re talking about. And with all the trouble lately with Templars going berserk, one wonders.” He glanced up at Freya. “Do _you_ know something?”   
  
“Nothing concrete,” she said. “Just going off of suspicions and a few tidbits of information we’ve been able to glean.”   
  
“Are there any spots where these tears seem to occur with any regularity?” asked Cullen. "Multiple reports, that sort of thing?"

“Oh, yes,” said Solas, returning to the book on the table and flipping pages again. He turned to a large map of Thedas showing several points marked with bright green dots of various sizes.  
  
“These are all the rifts that have been reported in recorded history. Some of them are one-time occurences. A few are places where a rift has opened twice, or three times. But this one--” he pointed a finger on the map to the largest green dot-- “comes up over and over again throughout the centuries. Or it did, until the land surrounding it was developed, about ten years ago. Since then, efforts to silence any report of unusual activity in the area have been relentless.”   
  
His finger was pointing to a place on the map in the northwest region of Ferelden.   
  
“Do you know what was built on the land you’re talking about?” Freya asked.   
  
“Yes,” answered Solas. “A pharmaceutical plant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a little laugh, Google the meaning of Solas' last name.


	22. Target Practice

“I’m _so_ not comfortable with this.”  
  
Freya’s eyes roamed over her surroundings, taking in the shooting range and all its patrons. Loud bangs and pops issued from the weapons firing around her, their sounds muffled by her headphones. There was way too much camo for her taste, and she caught more than one lecherous glance directed toward her as they walked to their lane. She guessed not many petite little elf women made their way here, based on the demographics represented at the moment. A dwarf with more guns in front of him than he had teeth gave her a seedy grin, and she shivered inwardly.

“What makes you uncomfortable?” asked Cullen, heaving his bag off his shoulder and setting it on a bench. He seemed blissfully oblivious to the testosterone clouds in the air. In his other hand, he carried a fistful of targets they had purchased when they had paid their entrance fee, and he set about hanging one up.

“Well,” Freya said, counting off the reasons on her fingers, “for one, I’m a pacifist, and I don’t believe in guns. Secondly, I spend more nights than I’d like to admit digging bullets out of patients and I know what these things can do, and that kind of power gets taken far too lightly. And three, every man in this place is looking at me the way a Mabari looks at a plate of bacon, and it’s skeeving me out.”

Cullen turned, taking in her expression. She was chewing on her lip, something she only did when she was feeling genuinely nervous. He took one of her hands in his, feeling the warmth of her soft skin beneath his rough palms.

“If anything,” Cullen said earnestly, “those reasons make you the perfect candidate to be wielding a gun. Well, maybe not the third one. Who do I need to punch?”

Freya rolled her eyes and gave him a slight grin.

“The list of who you _don’t_ is probably shorter,” she said, watching as Cullen unzipped his bag and took out a small pistol. The sight of it made her stomach squirm. He gave her a sympathetic look.

“I know you don’t like any of this,” he said, “but the reality of our situation is that you need to know how to protect yourself, and I don’t think a self-defense class is going to cut it. Samson and his Templars won’t think twice about using excessive, even lethal force on you. We need to be ready. _You_ need to be ready.”

He handed her the pistol. She hesitated, her hand hovering over it.

“I haven't loaded it," he told her, "don’t worry. I just want you to hold it, feel the weight in your hands and learn how to grip it.”

She held it up, her hand shaking slightly, aiming the gun at the target.

“Let me,” Cullen said gently, using his hands to guide her fingers into the perfect grip. “There. Now, when you aim, make sure the sights are aligned here, and here. Look straight down the barrel and focus on the front sight. Align it with your target, and then squeeze the trigger gently.”

He stood behind her and looked at her form.

“Move your feet out a little; they should be shoulder-width. And bend your knees a bit. You’re too stiff.”

“Yes, _commander_ ,” she joked, smiling to herself. He seemed in his element here, instructing her.

“If only I could get you to take orders this easily in bed,” he said into her ear, and she chuckled.

“Ah, yes. A place where ‘too stiff’ has never been a problem.”

Cullen gave a small chuff of laughter that blew warm air against her skin.

“If you want me to concentrate on guns,” she told him, “maybe you should stand back a bit and not put your hand there.”

Cullen drew his fingers away from her waist, but not before giving her neck a soft kiss.

“As you wish,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Do you think you’re ready to try it with a loaded gun?”

Freya was, as it turned out, not a great shot. She could hit the target itself just fine, but when it came to firing a shot into the points where she actually _aimed_ , she was often five or six inches off.

“We’ll keep practicing,” Cullen told her reassuringly, patting her on the shoulder. He held his hand out for the pistol, and she clicked the safety into place and then passed it to him. It was the first time he’d really held it much since the night he’d met Freya. It felt strange to be wielding a gun again.

Taking aim at the target, he lined up the sights on the barrel over the outline of the human head that was printed on the paper and squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

A bullet whizzed through the air and into the middle of what would have been the person’s forehead. He imagined Samson’s smug face and sardonic grin and fired again.

BANG!  
  
This shot was so close that it overlapped the previous hole. It felt cathartic, the bullets flying on-target and the kickback of the pistol satisfactorily jarring his wrist. He thought of the little bottle of pills sitting at home, full of an alien substance that was doing Maker knew what to his body.

BANG!

He thought of his friends back in Ferelden; fellow soldiers experimented on like rats in a lab.

BANG!

He thought of Kinloch.

BANG!

He thought of his sabotaged car.

BANG!

Standing next to him, Freya saw his eyes flash with anger as he thought of the soldier in the hospital who had grabbed her arm, hard enough to leave bruises, and remembered the way Samson had called her “Rabbit.”

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

He kept firing until all that came from the pistol was a sharp clicking noise, the clip empty and the target’s head now a cluster of closely-spaced holes of various sizes.

“Cullen?”

Freya’s voice was barely audible through the protective earmuffs. He turned to see that she had backed away from him, her eyes wide. His chest heaved, he was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached, and he could feel his quickened pulse in his temple as blood coursed through his veins.

In the past few weeks, he had seen how much any outward display of anger unnerved Freya, and given her past, he couldn’t blame her. He hastily put the gun down and took a step toward her. She flinched slightly.

“Freya, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I should have considered… I just got lost in my own head for a minute.”

“I’d like to go home now,” she said, her voice still small and her eyes avoiding his. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” he told her, gingerly packing up their possessions.

The car ride home was silent. Freya kept her eyes on the road, Cullen shooting her nervous glances every few seconds.

When they got to the apartment, Freya set her keys down and headed straight for the bedroom, Cullen following quietly. She stripped off her jacket and hung it, then bent down, still not speaking as she made to take her shoes off.

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” he asked, sitting on her bed. She stopped, her hands frozen in the act of untying her laces.

Looking up at him for the first time since they’d left the shooting range, she said, “Cullen… I’ve never seen you that angry. I said your name a few times while you were firing and you just… you weren’t even in the room anymore.”

“I know,” he said. “I just lost myself for a minute.”

“Are you… _okay_?”

"No,” he said, a shadow of his earlier expression crossing his face again. “I _am_ angry, Freya. I just found out my superiors knowingly gave me something radioactive, possibly from another planet. I took the stuff for _years_. Who _knows_ what it’s been doing to me? I could be dying slowly, rotting from the inside out." He paused, shaking his head and giving her an apologetic glance. "But I shouldn’t have lost control. I know you get upset when people get too angry, and I understand why.”

“It’s not just that,” Freya said, looking distraught again. “I’m worried about you. That wasn’t just garden-variety anger I saw in your eyes. That was _wrath_ , Cullen. And one of the hallmark signs of red lyrium is bouts of rage. I just kept thinking, what if…”

“It’s been on my mind, too,” Cullen told her grimly. “I have no reason to doubt that they would have made me part of the program without my consent. And Merrill said the pills I gave her weren’t the same substance that she found in the blood, but maybe not all the pills are the same, or maybe the changes don't happen until they interact with the body. Who knows how any of it works?”

Freya looked as though he had just confirmed her worst fears.

“But if you _did_ ever… I mean, what would I _do_? If you turned on me, I couldn’t even begin to overpower you.”

Cullen gave her a joyless smile.

“Freya,” he said, his voice quiet and heavy with sadness. “Why do you think I’m teaching you how to shoot?”

 

 


	23. Due Process

“The defense calls its first witness to the stand: Dr. Freya Lavellan.”

Cullen’s judgment day had come.

They had already heard the prosecution’s side, with Cullen declining to testify in his defense. Bull had thought it more prudent for him to stay quiet and avoid possibly incriminating himself. Freya swallowed hard as she stood in front of the courtroom with her hand on a copy of the Chant as the bailiff, a young human male, swore her in.

“Do you affirm that the evidence presented by you today will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Maker help you?”

“I do.”

She sat down behind the witness stand, glancing over at Cullen. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile, hands folded into his lap, all the while fidgeting nervously under the table. Bull strode toward her, looking smart in his suit as walked confidently across the courtroom floor.

“Dr. Lavellan, can you please describe in your own words what happened on the night of the sixth of August of this year?”

“I was working my shift at Kirkwall Memorial Hospital,” she said. “I’m an ER physician there. I had just finished up another patient when the defendant, Mr. Rutherford, was brought in from the scene of a vehicle collision.”

“And you did his examination, correct?” asked Bull.

“Yes. I did Mr. Rutherford's triage, as well. The rest of my staff were busy.”

“So it was you, yourself, who measured and recorded Mr. Rutherford’s vital signs and symptoms?”

“That’s correct.”

“How long have you been a medical doctor, Doctor Lavellan?”

“I graduated six years ago, then spent four years in residency at Kirkwall Memorial before working shifts on my own.”

“So you’ve had four years of experience in emergency care?”

“No, six. Four years in residency and two more years on my own, following that.”

“And you graduated from…?”

“University of Kirkwall School of Medicine, _summa cum laude_.”

“So,” said Bull, “You graduated from one of the most prestigious medical programs in Thedas in the top five percent of your class, and you have six years of experience in your field.”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you ever worked as a military health professional in any capacity?”

“No, I haven’t,” Freya replied, shaking her head.

“Had you worked with any Templar patients before Mr. Rutherford?”

“No, he was the first. There isn’t much military activity in the Free Marches, so we don’t see a lot of soldiers here, let alone Templars.”

“Did you know Mr. Rutherford was a Templar when he came in?”

“Not immediately, no. I noticed his tattoo and ID tags about halfway through the examination.”

“Do you recall Mr. Rutherford’s symptoms on the night of his accident?”

“Yes.” Freya nodded. “Elevated temperature and heart rate, low blood pressure, nausea, and perspiration. A headache and dilated pupils, likely from the injuries sustained in the wreck.”

“And it is your opinion, as an expert witness, that Mr. Rutherford may have been experiencing a bout of influenza?”

“Or a similar virus, yes. That was my diagnosis that night, and I stand by that.”

“And you did _not_ order a blood test for Mr. Rutherford to check for lyrium levels, is that also correct?”

“Yes, it is,” said Freya. “I honestly didn't make the connection between his symptoms and his use of lyrium.”

“And would you say it was your lack of experience with Templar matters that led you to miss this connection?”

Freya opened her mouth to answer.

“Objection!” The voice of a tall, stern-looking human woman carried across the room. Calpernia Caisson, the attorney for Raleigh Samson, was now standing up and looking cross. “Leading the witness.”

“Sustained.”

The judge turned and looked down his long nose at Bull. He was an elf, himself, old enough to be Freya’s grandfather. Bull had worked with him before and knew him to be fair-minded and more likely than not to empathize with non-humans. “You may rephrase the question.”

“Why did the connection between the symptoms and lyrium usage not register?”

“I’ve never dealt with anyone using lyrium before,” Freya answered, giving a small shrug. “I deal with the flu all the time. It was just where my brain immediately went. Lyrium and the Templar program are both still relatively new, and without a military presence in the Free Marches, as I said, we don’t see Templars often.”

“And can you briefly describe what happened during your examination of Mr. Rutherford, the interruption you experienced?”

“Yes.” Freya sat up straighter. “During my treatment of the patient, that man barged in with a team of soldiers and assaulted us. One of his men grabbed me so hard he left bruises on my upper arms, and he compromised my patient’s intravenous catheter by flicking him in the arm over the catheter site.”

“Let the record show that the witness has indicated General Raleigh Samson, of the prosecution,” Bull stated, turning to the court recorder. “And what did General Samson do following this?”

“He pulled my patient’s dog tags off and informed him that he had been dishonorably discharged.”  
  
“Let the record also show,” Bull said, turning again to the court recorder, “that the prosecution filed Mr. Rutherford’s discharge the next day, and that he was, as of that moment, no longer part of the Marine Corps or the Templar program.”

Bull then turned to the judge.

“Defense rests. Open for cross-examination.”

Calpernia approached Freya, her expression unreadable.

“Dr. Lavellan,” she said, folding her hands in front of her primly. “When did you say you were hired at Kirkwall Memorial Hospital?”

“Last Bloomingtide would have made it six years.”

“And the Templar program had already begun by then, yes?”

“It was new, but yes, I believe it was already in full swing.”

“Since the inception of the Templar program, protocols have been given to all area hospitals, outlining symptoms of lyrium withdrawal and mandating blood tests for any Templar patient suspected of lyrium withdrawal. Hospital staff across Thedas are required to sign these forms.”

Freya looked blankly at Calpernia.

“Do you recall signing such a form when you were hired, Dr. Lavellan?”

“Have you ever seen a stack of new hire paperwork for a physician?” asked Freya with a smirk. “I signed about a _hundred_ forms.”

“Do you recall whether you signed a form _specifically_ pertaining to Templar patient protocols?”

“I can’t confirm or deny signing such a form,” Freya replied, issuing the exact phrase Bull had instructed her to give when this question came up, as they had known it would. “If I had, I would assume it would have been accessible to you when you subpoenaed the hospital for records.”

“The attorney for the defense,” Calpernia said, changing tactics, “made a show of emphasizing your competence. _Summa cum laude_ is an admirable achievement, especially in a field of study as challenging as medicine.”

“Thank you?” Freya asked, raising an eyebrow. A small titter of laughter came from the direction of the jury.

“How then,” asked Calpernia, “does such a _competent_ and _experienced_ doctor miss the connection between symptoms like Mr. Rutherford’s and a diagnosis of lyrium withdrawal, which lines up almost exactly?”

“Well, as I said,” Freya told her, looking a little impatient, “I’m _not_ experienced in Templar matters. If I told you that you had a case involving intellectual property infringement to handle, would you feel confident taking it, as a criminal prosecutor?”

“As a professional, I would at least do a _minimal_ amount of research on the subject, or I would reject the case to protect the client,” Calpernia responded curtly.

“And how much time do you imagine we have in an emergency room to get out our encyclopedias and research _every_ possible diagnosis for _every_ patient? I already have to know the basics of triage for humans, Qunari, elves, and dwarves, and I have to be able to recognize and treat a wide variety of acute injuries and illnesses. I start with the most likely diagnosis and use the process of elimination to decide if it is correct. And we do not, as physicians, have room in our oaths to ‘reject the case.’ I treat anyone who comes to me to the best of my ability, and that is what I did with Mr. Rutherford. His symptoms made sense with the diagnosis I gave. That’s all I can tell you. In any case, a blood test was not ordered, and I cannot tell you with any certainty what Mr. Rutherford’s lyrium levels were at the time of his accident.”

Bull shot her a covert thumbs up, and Freya looked defiantly at Calpernia, then to Samson, who was glowering behind the prosecution’s table.

“Prosecution rests,” Calpernia said, turning to walk back to her table.

“The witness may be excused," said the judge. "Defense, call your next witness.”

Freya rose as Bull’s voice rang out confidently.

“The defense calls Thomas Rainier to the stand.”

Blackwall tipped her a wink as he passed her, taking his seat behind the stand. Freya sat back down next to Dorian on a bench not unlike a church pew.

“You did good,” Dorian whispered, squeezing her hand. When she held his grip, looking anxiously at the back of Cullen’s blonde curls, he allowed her to keep her fingers wrapped around his.

Freya had never seen Blackwall in anything but a mechanic’s uniform. He had on a pinstriped suit today, his long hair pulled neatly back into a bun. It looked as though he had even trimmed his beard for the occasion.

“Mr. Rainier,” Bull began, “Can you explain your relationship to the defendant?”

“I was asked by Mr. Rutherford to examine his car following the accident,” Blackwall answered.

It was close enough to the truth, thought Freya.

“And what makes you qualified for such a task?”

“I’m a mechanic,” Blackwall answered, shrugging. “Dad taught me how to work on cars as soon as I could hold a wrench.”

“Did the defendant say _why_ he wanted you to examine the car?”

“He had a hunch there was foul play.”

Bull turned to a white screen near the front of the courtroom.

“If we could please display the photographic evidence submitted to the court,” he said, gesturing at the screen. The photos Blackwall had taken appeared on the screen.

“Mr. Rainier, can you tell me what these photos depict?”

“I took these of the underside of Rutherford’s car,” he said.

“Please display a larger version of Exhibit A,” Bull asked, and the photo was selected and enlarged to fill the screen. “Can you explain what we see in this photo?”

“That’s a broken tie rod,” explained Blackwall. “Controls the turning of your wheels when you steer.”

“Exhibit B please?”

The close-up he had taken of the tie rod now filled the screen.

“And this?” asked Bull.

“Those shiny scratch marks in the metal, next to the break? They looked like saw marks to me. Like someone cut almost all the way through the tie rod.”

“Exhibit C, if you please. What can you tell us about this photo?”

“Those are Rutherford’s brake lines. Someone's cut 'em.”

“And in your opinion, as an expert witness, this is what would have caused the defendant to wreck?”

“Oh, without a doubt,” Blackwall said confidently, nodding his head. “Someone sawed his tie rod almost in half. Rutherford went to turn, the rod snapped, and he lost control. The brake lines had been severed, so he couldn’t stop, and he wrapped his car around a tree.”

“And, again in your own opinion, was an accident avoidable at all?”

“Only through sheer luck or an act of the Maker. Someone meant for that car to crash, and they made sure it was inevitable.”

“Thank you, Mr Rainier. Defense rests, open for cross-examination.”

Calpurnia stood, still looking cross.

“Mr. Ranier,” she asked, approaching the bench more tentatively this time, “do you have any idea _who_ might have sabotaged Mr. Rutherford’s car?”

“Beats me,” Blackwall said, shrugging again. “There wasn’t any evidence of who might’ve been behind it.”

“Is it possible...” said Calpurnia, and it looked like she was struggling a bit now, “Do you think it may be that Mr. Rutherford sabotaged his _own_ car and staged the accident to cover up lyrium withdrawal?”

Blackwall laughed outright.

“Why on earth would he do _that_? That seems a bit of a stretch, ma’am. I mean, he's lucky he didn't _die_ , based on what that car looked like. And anyway, he didn’t seem like he knew what he was looking at when I showed him the pictures of the tie rod. No offense to Mr. Rutherford, o’course, but my guess is that he can change his oil, but he doesn’t know enough about cars to plan something like this.”

Cullen grinned at Blackwall, inclining his head as if to agree.

“No further questions,” Calpernia snapped, crossing briskly back to her chair.

“The witness may be excused. The defense may call the next witness.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Bull said, standing. "The defense rests."

“In that case,” said the judge, “I will hear closing arguments, starting with the prosecution.”

Calpernia rose again, looking annoyed at having to stand after she had only just taken a seat.

“Your Honor,” she began, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the law is clear. Operating a vehicle while not taking the required dosage of lyrium is both a violation of federal law and an unethical decision which puts the lives of ordinary citizens--citizens which Cullen Rutherford _swore_ to protect--at great risk. We cannot allow the poor decisions of an apparently _incompetent_ doctor--” Dorian felt Freya bristle next to him-- “to negate the fact that the defendant willingly put people in danger by getting behind the wheel of that vehicle, regardless of the car’s condition. I implore you to consider the wider implications of your decision today. Do we set a precedent for people like the defendant to get away with such negligence and carelessness, or do we make it clear that the people of Thedas will not stand for such reckless behavior from its finest military institution? We are confident you will do what is right.”

“That,” Dorian whispered into Freya’s ear, “was _weak_.”

As Calpernia took a seat, Bull stood and made a show of buttoning his blazer, taking his time to cross to the front of the courtroom, where he cleared his throat.

“May it please the court, and members of the jury. We are here today to decide whether my client, Cullen Rutherford, violated the law by operating a vehicle without adequate levels of lyrium in his system. In a court of law, the burden of proof is on the prosecution. They must prove, _beyond a reasonable doubt_ , that the defendant is guilty of the crime of which he is being accused. Did they accomplish this today? That is for you to decide, but I believe that we have insufficient evidence to suggest such a claim.”

Bull paced as he spoke, gesturing to Cullen.

“Blood tests were not ordered or performed that would tell us what my client’s lyrium levels were at the time of his accident. My client was asked to submit to a blood test one week ago, and I advised him to comply. This recent testing showed his lyrium levels to be deficient. However, as he was discharged from the Templar program on the seventh of August, over one month ago, and it is illegal for non-Templars to take lyrium, all this shows is that he has _obeyed_ the law by discontinuing the medication following his expulsion. Furthermore, my client and his doctor were harassed and assaulted by the very organization bringing charges against him, and there is significant evidence to suggest that his car was sabotaged, which led to his accident and would not have been avoidable even if the defendant had been feeling normal.”

He faced the jury now, his face imploring.

“Mr. Rutherford is facing a lifetime in prison for these charges if he is found guilty. And yet all we are being asked to go on is shaky, circumstantial evidence that he committed a crime in the first place. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are being asked today to make a decision that will determine the future of a man who dedicated his life to the service of the United States of Thedas, a commitment he does not and has never taken lightly. We stand before you today, asking you to consider whether the prosecution has satisfied their burden of proof, and given you evidence _beyond a doubt_ that he committed the crime for which he is accused. If there is any uncertainty in your mind, the only ethical course is to find him not guilty, or else you risk sending an innocent man to a dismal fate behind bars. We know you will do what you have sworn to do in your roles as jurors, and we thank you for your time.”

Bull crossed back to his seat.

“Maker, I love that man,” Dorian breathed, and Freya couldn't help but smile. He _was_ good at his job.

“The jury is excused for deliberation. The court will recess until such time as a verdict is reached.”

The judge pounded his gavel once, and the jury slowly filed out.

Outside the courtroom, the four friends were quiet, exchanging brief, angry glances with the prosecution team across the hallway. Deliberations were over inside of twenty minutes, and the court was called to order again.

"That was quick," Dorian said as they took their seats. "Hopefully that's a good sign."

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked, and the foreperson, a middle-aged dwarf, stood up with a sheet of paper clutched in his hands.

“We have, your honor.”

“Will the defendant please rise?” the judge asked, looking at Cullen. He stood, placing one hand on the back of his chair to stabilize himself, heart hammering in his chest. “How do you find the defendant?”

Freya held her breath, squeezing Dorian’s hand tight again.

“We find the defendant _not guilty_ ,” the dwarf announced, and he handed the slip of paper to the bailiff. Dorian felt Freya deflate next to him, the tiniest gasp escaping her as she leaned her head on his shoulder, relieved.

The judge nodded, taking the paper from the bailiff and examining the signatures.

“Very well. The verdict is accepted. In the case of the US Marines Templar Division vs. Cullen Rutherford, this court finds the defendant not guilty. All charges dropped.”

He banged the gavel sharply, and Cullen slumped back down into his chair, face in his hands. Bull clapped him on the back, grinning from ear to ear.

Freya scooted off the bench and hurried up the aisle to Cullen, who stood and embraced her.

“Thank the Maker,” he said, breathless, holding her tight. “Let’s get out of here.”

They turned, walking back up the aisle. As they left the courtroom with Dorian and Bull, Cullen felt a strong hand grip his arm, and he turned to see the angry face of Raleigh Samson staring him down.

“We know you’re putting your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he growled in an undertone. “You and your little bunny _friend_.”

Cullen stared back, unflinching.

“I don’t know what you mean, General,” he said, positioning himself directly between Samson and Freya.

“This doesn’t end here,” Samson said through gritted teeth. “You mark my words. We’re not done.”

With that, he turned and marched off, Calpernia quick-stepping loudly in her high-heeled shoes to keep up.

“Well,” said Dorian as they watched them leave. “ _That_ was disconcerting.”

“He’s just posturing,” Cullen said. “With all that evidence that someone sabotaged my car, he wouldn’t dare put himself out there again by attacking me outright. Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“Fortunately,” said Bull, pulling a silver pen out of his pocket. “I’m quick with a recorder.”

He pushed a small button on the side, and a muffled voice from inside the pen said “-- _ark my words. We’re not done_.”

He winked at Cullen, who looked surprised and impressed, then turned to head toward the exit.

“Now, who wants a drink?”


	24. A Missing Person

“That was one of the weakest defenses I’ve heard in a minute.” Bull was shaking his head, pouring drinks in the kitchen as he talked. “Caisson’s a well-respected attorney, but based on what I saw today, I’m not impressed.”   
  
“Yeah, I was a little surprised they even brought the case to trial, with how little they had to go on,” Dorian said, motioning for Bull to keep pouring rum into his cocktail. “Liiiiittle bit more, love. And then maybe just a _smidge_ more. Another little splash. _There_ we go.”   
  
“Why not just take the bottle?” Freya joked, giving him a pointed look.   
  
“It’s an off-week, pet. I intend to live large. You know, I’m still curious as to why they never subpoenaed me...”   
  
“My guess?” Bull said, passing glasses around. “They knew you’d just corroborate her story. They’ve doubtless done their homework on you both and know you have a long history. Bet they were hoping Rutherford would testify and trip himself up. I’m glad we pled the fifth.”   
  
“You know, I had a friend in college--” began Cullen, accepting his cocktail with a nod of thanks.   
  
“Just the one?”  
  
Freya snorted into her drink.  
  
“Fuck off, Pavus,” Cullen said with a chuckle.  “Anyway, my friend had this annoying habit after exams where he would want to go over the answers one by one, to see if we’d said the same thing. It was enough anxiety for me to have to take the test once, but he always wanted to rehash it all over again.”

“Is this your way of saying you don’t want to talk about the trial anymore now that it’s over?” asked Bull, smirking. By way of an answer, Cullen made a clicking sound and pointed at Bull with a wink.   
  
“Understood.”   
  
“Do you think they’ll let you come back to work now?” Dorian asked, looking at Freya. She was leaning against the counter, staring into her glass.

“I would think so,” she said, “now that all this mess is over with. Though it’s not my week to work. I’ll call Fiona in a few days, see what she and the board have decided. If I don’t hear from her first, that is.”   
  
Her back pocket vibrated suddenly, and she straightened, digging her phone out.

  
  
  
  


She showed the message to Cullen.   
  
“Strange,” he said, furrowing his brow. 

“What’s up?” asked Dorian, a note of concern in his voice.

“It’s Cole,” Freya explained. “Sera can’t reach him.”

“He’s a bit reclusive anyway, isn’t he?” asked Bull. “When he was working on our case, I always had to jump through hoops to get ahold of him.”   
  
“Yes, but Sera can always seem to connect when she wants to. She wouldn’t be messaging me about it if she wasn’t concerned.”   
  
Cullen took a long draft of his drink, exchanging a worried look with Freya over the rim of his glass.   
  
“I hope he’s okay.”   
  
“Him _and_ that flash drive,” Dorian added with a frown as he watched Freya drain her cocktail.   
  
“Better pour me another, Bull,” she said, wiping her mouth. If she’d gotten that poor man into trouble…

  
  
*          *          *          *          *

 

Cullen had never seen Freya truly _drunk_ before. He knew she had overdone it in part because she, like him, was worried for Cole. He almost told her to slow down, but then thought better of it. She was a grown woman, after all, and quite aside from that, he knew that this _particular_ woman was not fond of being told what to do.    
  
She pounded down four cocktails in record time, and Bull was not a stingy bartender. By the end of her fifth, she was loudly denouncing the whole of Thedosian politics, and starting in on a long rant about “ _rampant militarism_ ” and “ _conservative collusion with phony, money-hungry neoliberals_ ” when Bull decided it was time to put the rum away on a high shelf.   
  
“Oh, come _on_ ,” she said. “I’m jus’ getting _started_!”   
  
“Believe me, I know,” Bull said, smirking. “That’s why we’re cutting you off now.”   
  
“Coward,” Freya teased, pointing at him. She swayed on her feet a little.   
  
“I think,” said Cullen, gently wrapping an arm around her waist, “that it’s a good time for bed. We’ve had a long day.”   
  
“Ohhhh,” she replied, giving him a toothy grin. “Yes. We should go to bed. _My_ bed. Definitely.”   
  
She awkwardly closed one lid in what she must have imagined was a sly wink.   
  
Cullen turned her toward the bedroom door, meeting Dorian’s eyes over her shoulder.   
  
“Tie her hair back before you to go bed,” he advised. “ _Trust me_.”   
  
Andie plodded behind the pair of them, flopping down next to Freya’s desk with her head on her paws. As soon as the door clicked shut, Freya turned and draped her arms around Cullen’s neck.   
  
“Hey,” she said, grinning.   
  
“Hey, yourself,” he said, smiling back. He opened his mouth to say something else, but as soon as he did, she covered it with hers.

It was a sloppy kiss, with too much tongue and clumsily clashing teeth. She tasted exactly like the cocktails they’d been sipping. Or, more accurately, _he’d_ been sipping. She’d been slamming them like it was a competition.   
  
Freya broke away, giving him what, to her, was a coy smile.  
  
“Bedtime,” she said, yanking him forward by his waistband. They were both still dressed in their attire from the courtroom, and had the situation been different, he would have been more than happy to see her undoing his tie and slipping it seductively from beneath his collar the way she was doing now. Well, _trying_ to do. She was fumbling a bit with the knot, but she was persevering admirably.   
  
Truth be told, they hadn’t been intimate since before that day at the shooting range, when they had both revealed that they shared the exact same fear about the potential consequences of Cullen’s lyrium use. She’d been a little distant in the interim, barely giving him more than a peck on the cheek when they said goodnight to one another, retreating to her side and pointedly rolling away from him each night. He missed her touch, the taste of her skin, the way she would wrap her legs around his waist when--

He shook his head, realizing he was getting too carried away in his own imagination. Though he hadn’t had nearly as much as Freya, he was still feeling a little tipsy. Not so much that he didn’t recognize the situation for what it was, though. As much as he _wanted_ to…

“Freya, I can’t,” he told her, moving her hand away from his belt buckle. “Not tonight.”   
  
Her face fell, and she pouted her lip out dramatically.

“Why not?” she asked, hooking her fingers into his belt loops and pulling herself even closer to him. “Iss been _aaaaages_.”   
  
“It has,” he admitted, “and I miss it. Trust me, I would love nothing more than exactly what you’re after.”   
  
“Well then,” she said, moving her hands back to his belt, “what’re we waiting for?”   
  
“Sweetheart,” he told her, pulling her hands away again, gentle but firm. “You’re very, _very_ drunk. I cannot in good conscience do anything with you when you’re in this state.”   
  
She frowned at him, her brow furrowed in an exaggerated expression of anger.   
  
“I’m perfectly cap’ble of making deshishuns,” she told him, taking a step backward and swaying again as she planted her foot.   
  
“Yes,” he said, “decisions you won’t remember tomorrow.”   
  
She crossed her arms.   
  
“Well, if thass the way you feel boutit, thass fine. You can go back to sleeping on the cousch. Take your dog with you.”   
  
She turned away from him and crossed to the bed, where she began struggling to unbutton her blouse with her back to him. He could tell from the way her body was shaking that she was crying.   
  
“Freya,” he said, softly, walking up behind her.   
  
“Go!”

Cullen stopped short, taken aback by the anger in her voice. Andie looked up from her spot, ears low, and gave a soft whine.   
  
“Alright,” he said quietly, unable to mask the hurt in his voice. “If that’s what you want. Come on, girl.”   
  
He motioned to the mabari, and they headed toward the door together. He had his hand almost to the doorknob when he heard the first retching sound. Turning, he caught sight of Freya running to the bathroom with a hand over her mouth. A slamming sound issued from around the corner as Freya flung the toilet seat up, and then another loud retch, followed by the unmistakable noise of vomit splashing into the water.   
  
Cullen walked tentatively to the restroom doorway. She was bent over the toilet, her back arching upward as she heaved.

_About time it was my turn at this_ , he mused to himself, thinking about all the times she’d helped him through long nights of withdrawal as he’d sat in that very spot, hunched over the bowl.

He came up behind her and gently placed a hand on her back.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “I’m here.”   
  
He grabbed a hair band from a drawer and carefully gathered her curls into a bundle, tying them at her neck. They sat there for a long time, him rubbing her back as she continued to purge her stomach of all its contents. When she seemed to have thrown up all she had left in her, she sat back, shakily reaching to flush the toilet. She looked up at him, clearly embarrassed.   
  
“Cullen, I’m so sorry.”   
  
“Shhh, don’t worry about it.”   
  
“No, I was mean at you. I’m an _idiot_. A _drunk_ idiot.”   
  
He smiled a bit at her clumsy word choice and brushed aside a lock of hair that had escaped the ponytail and fallen into her eyes.   
  
“You’re not an idiot, Freya,” he told her. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just don’t want to do anything that would make you hate me in the morning. You’ve had so much to drink. You think you’re perfectly lucid right now, but I don’t feel comfortable. I’d feel like… like I was taking advantage.”   
  
She leaned into him with a dramatic groan.   
  
“Why do you have to be so _good_ all the time?”   
  
“I’m just programmed that way, I guess. Sorry.”   
  
She gave him a half-smile and motioned for him to help her up. After they both brushed their teeth, he carefully led her to the bed, then assisted her with the rest of her blouse buttons. She undid the waistband of her pencil skirt and let it slide to the floor, kicking it to one side, then sat and pulled her stockings off rather inelegantly. Crossing to his side of the bed, Cullen undressed with ease and slid under the sheet, pulling it back so that Freya could wiggle down next to him. 

Now that everything seemed to have calmed down, Andie returned to her spot on the carpet and lay down with a loud _flump_.   
  
Cullen stretched out one arm and invited Freya to cuddle up to him. She nestled herself into the crook of his shoulder. After several moments of quiet, she spoke, startling him a little. He’d thought she had fallen asleep.   
  
“I keep thinking about Cole, Cullen,” she said, her voice quiet and full of worry.

“I know,” he told her, running a hand over her shoulder. “Me too.”   
  
“What if something’s happened? What if… what if we got that man killed?”   
  
The question hung there in the air, unanswered, and the pair of them lay awake for some time, each lost in their unease, staring at the ceiling and hoping it wasn’t true.


	25. Answers and Invitations

Freya could tell it was morning as she stirred, even through the thickness of the pillow she was clutching over her face. A pounding inside her head throbbed relentlessly as she came to, reminding her of her excess the night before. She heard the soft sounds of footsteps on the floor, and a second later the pillow was gently pried out of her hands.

“Freya, it’s almost eleven.”   
  
Dorian was perched on the edge of the bed, smirking at her.

She blinked and immediately covered her eyes with one wrist. It was bright. So bright. Her head felt like it was going to burst any second.

“Having some regrets?” he asked her, still with that smug grin on his lips.

“Fuck off and let me _die_ ,” she moaned, squinting her eyes against the midmorning sun streaming in through the windows. “But first give me my pillow back.”

He laughed, tossing the pillow back over her face with a  _ flump _ . She didn’t move to shift it.

“Where’s Cullen?” asked her muffled voice.

“Making you eggs and a strong cup of coffee,” Dorian answered, standing up. “Wash your face and come eat. You’ll feel better.”

When she finally shuffled out of her bedroom fifteen minutes later, she found Cullen plating up a nice batch of scrambled eggs and toast for her. Dorian had set her mug of coffee on the table, along with a big bottle of Gatorade. He was seated in the chair next to her place, eyes on the television. As she sat down, he nudged the Gatorade toward her.

“Drink up, buttercup,” he urged. She obediently uncapped the bottle and took several long gulps.

“Ugh,” she said, pulling a face. “It’s like flavored sweat.”   
  
“If we had any Ringer’s hanging around, I’d just set you an IV,” Dorian said, looking at her sympathetically. “But alas, all I can offer is sweaty fruit punch today.”

Cullen set the plate of food in front of her. She looked at it and immediately felt a wave of nausea.

“I’m not sure food is a good idea.”

“Just nibble on the bread a bit,” Cullen told her, giving her back a little rub. “See how it goes.”

She picked up the slice of buttered toast and took a tiny bite. As she chewed, Cullen pulled out the chair on her other side and sat.

“Speaking of IVs,” he said, leaning forward on the table. “I’ve been thinking. I’d like to have some blood drawn.”

“What, like for fun?” asked Dorian, arching a brow.

“Is that… do people _do_ that for fun?”

“Everything is _someone’s_ kink, Rutherford.”

“Well,” Cullen replied, “it’s definitely not one of _mine_. I think I’d like to have it tested. For that mutated lyrium, the stuff that makes the red crystals.”

“Rubies.”

Dorian and Cullen both turned to look at Freya.

“What’s that, pet?” Dorian asked.

“That’s why they called it called 'Project Ruby', I bet. The mutated lyrium looks like little rubies in the blood.”

They all sat quietly, mulling this over.

“But the lyrium you were taking was different than the red kind, right?” asked Dorian after a moment. “Isn’t that what your friend at the lab said?”

“Merrill,” Freya said. “And yes, she did say she thought they were different.”

“But we don’t know _why_ it’s different," interjected Cullen. "It could be different pills or something else entirely that they’re feeding them. But maybe that’s just what happens when it reacts with the blood of certain people. Maybe some of my pills are the red lyrium, and they just made them all look identical so nobody suspected what was being done. In any case, I want Merrill to look at my blood, see if it’s the same.”

Freya moved her eggs around her plate with a fork, feeling even less like she wanted to keep eating now.

“I suppose it’s not a bad idea,” she admitted. Privately, she wondered if she really _wanted_ to know.  Dorian was giving her a searching kind of look, his astute senses picking up on the slight hesitation in her voice. She stood,  leaving behind a few bites of toast and her pile of untouched eggs.  “I’m going to call the lab and then get cleaned up for the day." 

She stayed in the shower for a long time. The hot water felt restorative, and the privacy afforded by the shower curtain allowed tears of worry to mix freely with the rest of the little rivers running down her face, unseen by Cullen.

When she emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her chest and steam billowing out behind her, she found him sitting on the bed, pulling on his trainers.   
  
“Feel a bit more human now?” he asked. She arched her eyebrow. 

“Word choice,” she said, smirking.

It took him a second to realize what he’d said wrong, and his face reddened. 

“Sorry!” he stammered. “I didn’t mean--”

“It’s not a big deal,” she assured him, patting him on the shoulder as she crossed to her bureau. “Merrill says to drop by today after the lab is closed and she can look at a sample.”

“Good,” he said, nodding. “That’s… good.”

Something about the way he said it made Freya think maybe she wasn’t the only one dreading the results.   
  
  


*          *          *          *          *

 

Merrill’s lab was frigid and sterile-looking, the surfaces all white and varying shades of grey. Microscopes of different kinds lined one wall, and the countertops were all covered in centrifuges, racks of test tubes, and machines Freya couldn’t identify.   
  
“I got some blood collection stuff from our hematology lab, but you’ll have to do the actual poke,” Merrill was saying, gesturing Freya and Cullen to a chair and a tray of tubes and needles. "I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing."   
  
Freya tied a tourniquet around Cullen’s arm, and he gave her a small smile.

“Deja vu,” he said. She grinned back at him as she wiped the crook of his elbow with alcohol.

“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” she replied. He winced a little as she pushed a needle into his vein, the suction from the little glass tube automatically drawing out a fine stream of blood. Cullen took note of the way her jaw muscles were clenching as she worked. The drive to the lab had been quiet, the air between them full of their shared, unspoken fears.

“We should only need one tube,” Merrill told her, watching the process. “I just need to be able to look at a smear on the microscope.”   
  
Freya nodded, pulling the needle back out and holding a cotton ball over the puncture. She strapped an adhesive bandage over it as Merrill took the tube over to one of the microscope and began to prepare a slide. 

Cullen watched as she slid the little glass rectangle onto the base of the microscope and hunched over, peering into it as she twiddled a little knob on the side. After a moment, he realized he was holding his breath, and he made a concerted effort to relax his body, inhaling and exhaling with slow purpose the way Freya had taught him to. This was not the time for a panic attack. He looked over at her. She was leaning against the counter, staring straight ahead into the middle distance, lost in her own thoughts. He wondered if the same horrible scene was playing out in her brain, too.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Merrill looked up from the slide. She turned to Cullen.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked him. Cullen’s stomach dropped.

“Er… fairly normal, yes.”   
  
“Why?” demanded Freya, straightening. “Did you find something?”

Merrill held up a hand.

“It’s alright,” she said gently. “There’s no sign of the crystalline structures in your blood. But your white cells are elevated. Now, a lot of things can cause that. Even stress can do it. But an infection is one of the most common reasons. No sinus congestion, headaches, anything like that?”

“No, nothing unusual.”

“Are you peeing normally? No pain or blood or anything like that?”

“No, that’s all been perfectly normal, too,” he told her, looking slightly embarrassed to be discussing his urine with a near-stranger.

“Hmm,” Merrill said, pursing her lips. “How long has it been since you took lyrium?”

“Ages,” he answered. “Weeks and weeks.”

“I wonder…” Freya said, letting her words trail off.

“What is it?” asked Cullen, turning toward her.

“Well, we have no idea how long the half-life of lyrium is. Maybe some of it is still in your system, and your body is still trying to fight the rest of it off. It would kind of explain some of the withdrawal symptoms. Most of the things we experience during an illness have a biological purpose. A high fever is your body’s way of burning off a virus. Nausea is your body’s way of trying to dispel poison.”

“It’s as good a theory as any,” said Merrill. “In any case, I think it’s safe to say you haven’t been exposed to the mutated lyrium. Or if you have, your body doesn’t show any signs.”  
  
“Is there a chance I _have_ been exposed, and changes just haven’t manifested yet?”

“I mean, this is all a huge unknown to me,” she replied, shrugging. “I can’t tell you much except that your blood looks pretty boring today, other than the white cells. But my gut says you’re probably safe. I’m happy to look again in a couple of weeks, though, if you want.”

  
  
As they walked back to the car, Freya had a lighter step, her face relaxed and not lined with worry for the first time all day.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, unlocking the door of the Bronco, “but I’m relieved.”

“I do feel better,” admitted Cullen, nodding. “Though I don’t think we can rule out anything just yet. But yes, for now, I’m at least content knowing that I won’t spontaneously turn into a slavering rage monster at any moment.”

Freya felt her phone buzz as she hopped up into her seat, and she took it out to check it.

“Oh boy,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What is it now?”

“It’s my dad,” she said, tossing the phone into a cup holder and firing up the engine. “He wants to have us over for dinner this week.”

“ _Us_?” asked Cullen. “Not just _you_?”

“The message said ‘ _Bring your soldier friend, if you want_.’ I can’t think of who else that would mean.”

“Does he know we’re, erm… _more_ than friends?”

“Oh, I'm sure he guessed that the moment you met him. My dad doesn’t miss much. But I haven’t offered up many details of our relationship. He doesn’t know you’ve moved in, for instance. After Karena… well, he worries. I don’t want him to think his daughter went and did something impulsive.”

“Even though you kinda did?” joked Cullen, smirking.

“ _Especially_ because I kinda did.”


	26. Atisumis

Freya's father lived in a small, unassuming little A-frame cabin on the edge of town, nestled into a tree line on the road to Sundermount. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as she pulled the truck onto the short driveway and parked behind a little red compact car.

She sat there for a moment after taking the keys out of the ignition, looking at the house and taking a deep breath.

“You look like you’re steeling yourself for battle,” Cullen mused with a chuckle.

“Oh,” she said, waving a hand, “Dad’s not that bad. He’s never been one to harass my significant others. It’s just… well, these sorts of things always tend to be a bit awkward, don’t they? I mean, it’s basically a rom-com trope at this point, isn’t it? Meeting the family?”  
  
“Well, I’ve already met him,” he reminded her. “He seemed to like me just fine.”

“It’s a bit different when you’re bringing someone _home_ , though.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cullen admitted. “I never really cared enough about someone to introduce my parents to them. And now that I do, well…”

 _No parents to introduce_ , he thought to himself. Freya seemed to read his thoughts, and she reached over and gave his hand a squeeze.

“If they managed to raise a man like you, they must have really been something.”

Cullen softly cleared his throat, then flipped down the visor above the windshield to inspect himself in the mirror.

“Do I look all right?” he asked, changing the subject. “Didn’t miss any spots shaving, did I?”

“What would you do if you had?” she asked with a grin. “Did you bring a razor, just in case?”

“Good point,” he said. “I just want to make a good impression.”

Before she could point out that Cullen, too, seemed a little nervous, Atisumis Lavellan appeared at the front door and waved at them. Freya waved back, opening her door.  
  
“ _Aneth ara!_ Find the place okay?” he joked as she walked up to the porch to embrace him.   
  
“I’ve only been here a thousand times.”

“A thousand and one, now.”

He pulled back and beamed at his daughter, then turned to Cullen, who held out a bottle of wine.

“We brought this, to go with dinner,” Cullen told him, and the elf smiled back at him.

“How thoughtful!” he said, accepting it and holding out his hand. “So nice to see you again, Cullen.”

“Likewise, Mr. Lavellan, sir.”

Cullen shook his hand with a firm grip. Atisumis chuckled.

“At ease, soldier. No need for that kind of formality. Call me Ati, everyone does.”

“Understood, sir. Er, sorry. Ati.”

The elf gave another chuckle and then beckoned them both over the threshold.

“Come in, come in,” he said, waiting for them both to enter before closing the door behind himself. “I’ve got the grill fired up for some steaks. Freya, I marinated some tofu for you. I hope that’s okay.”

“That sounds perfect, Daddy.”

Cullen looked around the little house. Ati’s decoration style was similar to Freya’s, with lots of secondhand furniture that she would have lovingly described as having “character.” He didn’t have near as many houseplants as she did, but much like at his shop, they were here in no small number. He also had a small bronze idol similar to Freya’s, which took pride of place on the mantle. The skull of a longhorn cow hung above the fireplace, so large that it almost looked out of proportion with the rest of the small, cozy room.

“Nice cow,” Cullen told him, gesturing toward it.

“Thank you,” Ati replied. “A gift from Freya.”

“Bull can’t stand it,” she said. “Gives him the creeps.”

Cullen gave a short laugh.

“Well, one can hardly blame him,” he said.

Ati was reading the label on the wine.

“ _Rialto Red_ ,” he said, squinting. “Antivan, eh?”

“It’s a blend,” Freya said. “We drink it a lot at home. Thought it would go well with steak.”

“Well, we’ll open it and let it breathe. Why don’t you get into the fridge and pick out a beer apiece while I do that, and we’ll all go out back to chat while the food cooks.”

The backyard, if you could call it that, was unadulterated woods. There was no distinguishing the property line between Ati’s house and his nearest neighbor, whose house could be seen a fair clip down the road, through the trees.

“This is a lovely spot,” Cullen told him, setting down a platter of fresh corn cobs, foil-wrapped potatoes, and herbed asparagus spears he’d been tasked with carrying outside.

“Thank you,” Ati replied, opening the grill and poking a bit at the glowing charcoal briquettes. “It’s simple, but it’s home.”

He laid out all the food on the grill and was met with a satisfying sizzle as each piece touched the hot iron. He and Cullen chatted jovially while they talked, mostly about the property and the surrounding woods. Freya stood by quietly and listened, sipping her beer and feeling pleased about how easily the men got on together. It was a lovely, cool evening, and the trees surrounding the garden cast the perfect amount of mottled shade over the back patio.

Once the food was ready, they made their way back inside. Freya set the table while Ati poured them each a glass of wine in the kitchen. After everyone was seated, he gestured at the various plates of food in the center. It was a small table, not unlike Freya’s, so everything was in easy reach of all three of them.

“We’re informal here, so just serve yourself. And don’t be shy about seconds. I made enough to feed a small army.”

“Thank you for cooking, Dad,” Freya said, spearing a few slices of tofu on her fork.

“Yes, thank you so much,” Cullen agreed. “Everything smells delicious.”

After a few minutes of tucking into the food and some small talk about how the shop was doing, Ati looked at Freya.

“So you never did tell me much about how the two of you met.”

Freya and Cullen exchanged a look.

“Um… actually, Cullen was a patient of mine.”

Ati looked from one to the other and back again.

“Is that _allowed?”_

“Well, if I was a general practitioner and Cullen was my regular patient, I suppose it would definitely be frowned upon. But most of the time, I see a patient once and then never again. We have some frequent fliers in the ER who can’t stay out of trouble, but it’s mostly a one-and-done sort of thing. So it’s not quite the same.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“According to the handbook, it’s not ethical as long as I am his practicing physician. But I’m not and haven’t been since we became romantically involved.”  
  
_Unless you count removing stitches_ , mused Cullen, suppressing a smile.

Ati made a noncommittal _“Hmm”_ sound under his breath and took a bite of steak, looking at his daughter as he chewed.

“Look, it wasn’t like we meant for it to take place,” she said, setting down her fork. “It just sort of… _happened_. And now, so long as I don’t treat him anymore, there’s really nothing wrong with it, by the book or not.”

“I just wouldn’t want to see the ethics board come down on you. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, especially being… well.”

“You can say it. Especially being _Dalish_.”

“Well, we can’t go around pretending it’s just as easy for us to climb up the ranks as it would be for a human. Everyone at this table knows that’s not the case.”

Cullen squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

“Yes,” Freya agreed. “They _do_ , so there’s no need to launch into a tirade about Dalish oppression.”

They ate in awkward silence for a moment. Cullen wracked his brains to come up with something--anything--to talk about, glancing toward the living room.

“I couldn’t help but notice your statuette earlier,” he said, motioning toward the idol on the mantel. “That’s Andruil, isn’t it? Goddess of the Hunt?”

“Ah, you know your elven mythology, eh?” Ati asked, looking impressed.

“He’s been reading up on the Evanuris,” Freya said, looking at Cullen proudly.

“Well,” Cullen said, waving a hand nonchalantly. “Seemed like the thing to do. If you love someone, you learn about the things they care about.”

Ati smiled and reached over to clap him on the shoulder.

“It’s unusual to see an Andrastian willing to learn our ways. Maybe someday you’ll even be a convert.”

Freya was about to chide her father, but Cullen merely shrugged.

“Maybe I will.”

Freya closed her mouth and looked at Cullen, surprise evident on her face.

“You know,” Ati said, smiling even wider, “Dalish _weddings_ are some of the most spectacular--”

“ _Daddy_.”

Ati raised his hands in surrender and chuckled to himself.

“All right, all right. So, Cullen, do you follow college basketball? The Hawks are looking to give your alma mater a sound thumping again this season.”

  


The rest of dinner went by quite pleasantly, and afterward, they all helped cart dishes and silverware into the kitchen for cleanup. Between the three of them, they made short work of the pile, and after Ati insisted on packing up lots of leftovers for them to take home, they prepared to say their goodbyes.

“I should use the restroom before we go,” Freya said as they made their way toward the front of the house. “I’ll only be a minute.”

After they heard the bathroom lock click into place, Ati turned to Cullen.

“Do you want kids someday, son?”

The question caught him off guard. He looked at the elf’s somber expression.

“Er… yes, sir, I think I do.”

He had defaulted back to _sir_ , for some reason. Perhaps it was being called “son,” or perhaps it was the gravity of the conversation. Ati did not correct him this time.

“I hope you become a father then, someday. It’s hard to describe to someone the love a parent has for their child. It’s incomparable to anything else. You know, Freya’s mother and I don’t get along so well. Obviously. But whatever happened between the two of us, I’m grateful that our relationship gave us both three amazing children. Freya is special. She means the _world_ to me. And to her mother. She was the first one to make us parents, after all.”

He paused, looking at a photo on the wall of Freya on graduation day, posing between her parents with her mortarboard and diploma, all three of them beaming.

“After Karena, well... I can’t tell you what it’s like to see your baby girl lying in a hospital bed, broken--inside _and_ out. I’m not here to threaten you, to tell you what grisly end you’ll meet if you hurt my daughter. She’s got Iron Bull for that. I’m just going to ask one thing of you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Treat my daughter the way that you hope someone, someday, will treat those children you hope to have. Love her the way you hope _they’ll_ be loved. Protect her, the way you hope someone will protect _them_.”

Ati’s eyes looked very bright. He blinked them several times.

“Can you do that, soldier?”

“I… yes, sir. Of course.”

“Good.”

Ati nodded, blinking some more. Freya was emerging from the hall bathroom, and both men simultaneously straightened, cleared their throats, and turned toward her. She looked at their serious faces and arched an eyebrow.

“Uh, did I interrupt something?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Ati, shrugging. “Just making small talk.”

“ _Right_ ,” she said, still looking suspicious. “Well, I suppose we should be off.”

Ati helped them gather their containers of leftovers and take them out to the truck. Before she hopped up into her seat, Freya turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“ _Ma serannas_ , Dad. Dinner was great. And it was nice to catch up a bit.”

“Of course, _da’lan_. Come round again soon, will you? It does your old man good to see his little girl.”

“I will,” she said, climbing into the car.

“You take care, soldier,” Ati called across the seat, giving him a salute. Cullen smiled and saluted back, knowing Ati wasn’t just talking about him.

“I will, sir,” he said, trying to convey understanding in his expression. “I _will_.”


	27. Lobo

Freya had been right about her schedule being hard in a relationship. She had returned to work with Dorian the weekend after the trial, and Cullen found himself alone in the apartment often now, the hours seeming to stretch on forever without her there to help him fill them.

He’d been spending some time job hunting, though he wasn’t even really sure what kind of work he was looking for. He’d been in the military his whole adult life. Transitioning to a civilian job suddenly seemed more challenging than anything he’d faced as a soldier.

When he wasn’t combing through job postings and classified ads, he would take Andie on walks around the neighborhood, or surf through the television with her curled up next to him on the sofa. Despite there being hundreds of channels, he rarely found anything worth watching.

He also did what he could to dig deeper into politicians with Templar connections, watching the endless backlog of congressional recordings and trying not to let his mind drift off elsewhere.

All these things helped keep him busy, but there were still large gaps in his day where the silence of the apartment amplified his loneliness. He had grown so accustomed to Freya’s presence that having her gone now made him feel somewhat abandoned. It was no fault of hers, of course. She had to get back to her life--the one he had disrupted so thoroughly.

His laptop lay open on his thighs, a blank search engine window illuminating the screen. He’d been trying to do research with the television on for background noise, but he’d looked up at the sound of a familiar voice. It was a show about aliens, one of those low-budget pseudo-documentaries that were always running on the History Channel, and he was watching none other than Professor Solas Rudolph discussing his theory on extraterrestrials.

“People use the idea of the Fade to explain all kinds of phenomenon, and as a religious tool to scare followers into a narrow way of living and thinking that conforms to the beliefs of the theocracy. People are more than willing to believe in the miracles of the Maker. Is it so hard, then, to believe that ‘the Veil’ is merely a barrier between worlds, and that what we call ‘the Fade’ is actually the realm of extraterrestrial beings? That these breaches in ‘the Veil’ are, in fact, portals to another world?”

“You know the world's taken a turn for the worse when _that_ is suddenly the most plausible explanation,” Cullen said, shaking his head.

His phone vibrated on the table, buzzing loudly. Andie looked up from her nap, her whiskers rumpled on one side from laying on them. He grabbed the phone and looked at the incoming message.

 

The thought of Freya brought a smile to his lips as he stood and stretched, stomach rumbling hungrily. It was nice to hear that she’d been thinking about him. He crossed to the kitchen and set about boiling water for pasta. His phone rattled against the surface of the coffee table again. Setting the filled pot on the stove, he walked back to the living room and picked up the phone, expecting a reply from Freya. His eyes went wide when he saw what was waiting for him instead.

 

*          *          *          *          *

  
  
“I can’t believe he just contacted you again out of the blue, after so long.”

Freya was seated on the edge of their bed, still in her scrubs, reading the text from Lobo. Cullen had waited up for her tonight, eager to tell her about the message.

“I know,” Cullen said, accepting the phone back from her outstretched hand. “It’s very strange. I had given up on ever hearing back from him.”

“Are you going to text him back?”

“Yes, I think so. I’d like to know once and for all who stole that flash drive. And If he has answers, we could use a lead.”

“I don’t like the idea of you going alone,” Freya admitted, hugging her knees to her chest. “Do you think he’d wait until my day off to meet?”

“One way to find out,” replied Cullen, tapping away at his keyboard.

 

 

“Where is it he wanted you to meet last time?”

“He sent me coordinates. Looked like an old abandoned building in Darktown from the satellite map I pulled up.”

“Well,” she said, smirking, “thank goodness. I was afraid it’d be someplace _sketchy_.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

As they arrived at the coordinates three days later, Cullen found himself thinking that Freya had been right to feel suspicious. It appeared to be a rundown apartment building surrounded by a whole line of other derelict structures, all in varying stages of decay. Windows here seemed to exist mostly as jagged shards or cracked panes left in their frames, and several of the doors along the row had boards nailed over their fronts, large fliers advertising that most of the street had been condemned by the city.

“If this Lobo person doesn’t kill us, the _tetanus_ might,” Freya said, cutting the ignition.

“We’re supposed to text him that we’re here,” Cullen said, pulling out his phone as he got out of the truck. They approached the front door with trepidation, climbing a couple of crumbling cement steps. Freya looked over her shoulder, eyes darting nervously up and down the block.

The door in front of them cracked almost imperceptibly and a low voice growled out at them from behind it.

“Who’s with you?”

“This is Freya,” Cullen said. “And I’m not going a step further without her, so you can either take us both or take neither of us.”

"Very well."

The door opened a little further. Cullen cautiously pushed it inward all the way and saw the retreating figure of a slender man in a hooded sweatshirt disappearing down a long, unlit hallway. They followed, stepping hesitantly into the dark as the door creaked shut behind them.

“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” the gravely voice under the hood asked as they caught up.

“Pretty sure,” said Freya. “Nobody that we noticed, and we were keeping a pretty good watch.”

“Good. This way.”

The figure opened a doorway at the end of the hall that seemed to lead down to the basement level. Bare lightbulbs hanging from chains along the ceiling illuminated a steep cement staircase with a rickety wooden handrail. The hum of a generator sounded from somewhere nearby.

“Mind your step, some of these stairs are in bad shape.”

At the bottom of the stairs was what appeared to be a sparsely appointed living space, with a squashy, worn old couch, a desk, and a small two-seater dining table. In one corner of the room was an outdated and grimy refrigerator next to a countertop that housed a rusty-looking sink and an electric hotplate.

The figure gestured toward the sofa.

“Sit if you want.”

He crossed to the desk and picked up a laptop computer, then turned toward them. “I apologize for the secrecy and the location. I’d prefer to have nicer living quarters, but as I’ve been on the run for over a year now, I’ve had to make do with whatever I could find. Now that you’re here, I suppose I should properly introduce myself. You may have guessed that Lobo is a pseudonym.”

He pulled the hood off, revealing pointed ears and a shock of white hair that stood out starkly against tanned skin. A network of what looked like white linework tattoos ran over his chin and down his neck, disappearing into his sweatshirt.

“You can call me Fenris.”


	28. Incaensor

“As you may already know,” Fenris explained, pulling a chair over to sit opposite the sofa, “I was hired by the Marine Corps some years ago. I used my computer hacking skills to beta-test simulated military security systems. I was good at my job.”

“But then you sort of fell of the face of the planet for awhile,” Cullen said with a frown. “What happened?”

“I’m getting there.”

He flipped the computer open in his lap and pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up over his forearms. The white tattoos snaked down from his elbows over his wrists and onto his hands.

“I started to catch snippets of conversations that piqued my interest---and not in a good way. I got wind of a top-secret program in the making, and using my very prodigious skill set, I was able to navigate my way through real security measures to access their data. Long before it was ever announced to the public, I knew about the Templar program. There was just one problem.”

“What was that?” asked Freya, leaning forward on the couch as though this was a particularly good campfire story.

“I got caught.”

Fenris looked down at his own arms, studying the white markings.

“I was apprehended in my apartment by military officials. I thought perhaps I was going to be tried for treason. What actually came to pass was much, _much_ worse. I wonder how much the two of you know about the doctors heading up the Templar program?”

“Not much,” admitted Cullen with a shrug. “Most of the doctors we saw during our treatments were regular base docs. But I do remember seeing a woman doctor sometimes who seemed to be in charge, middle-aged. Blonde.”

“Doctor Meredith Stannard,” Fenris said, nodding. “One half of the brains behind the Templars’ lyrium regimen. The other was Doctor Petyr Danarius, the man who purportedly discovered lyrium in the first place. Very fond of experimentation, Dr. Danarius. He was the one who oversaw my captivity. He gave me these.”

He held up an arm.

“Your tattoos?” asked Freya.

“They’re not tattoos,” he replied with a humorless smile. “Have you ever heard of a gunpowder brand?”

“No,” Cullen replied.

“Yes,” answered Freya, nodding. Cullen looked over at her, somewhat surprised. “It’s a form of scarification, a kind of body modification. Sera has mentioned it before. You cut a design into the skin, pack it with gunpowder, and you set it alight. The gunpowder cauterizes the wound and creates the brand.”

Fenris nodded.

“Precisely.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly advisable,” said Cullen, pulling a face.

“Neither are a lot of forms of body mod,” said Freya, shrugging. “I wasn’t giving a recommendation or anything. It’s absolutely unsafe.”

“Rather,” Fenris agreed. “Well, as it turns out, lyrium is quite a flammable substance if it’s treated the right way. It can be used in a very similar way to gunpowder, in order to brand a person. And it has unique properties that grant one certain… _abilities_ when it’s fused into the skin, as he found out.”

“Different from if you just take it in its pill form?” asked Cullen.

“Oh, yes. But that demonstration is for another day. I brought you here to discuss something else.”

He dug into the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt and pulled out a small black flash drive, identical to the one Cullen had velcroed into his copy of the Chant of Light.  
  
“So you _did_ take it!” Cullen accused, standing up to tower over the elf. “What about my car? Was that you as well?”

Fenris held up both of his hands in surrender.

“ _No_ ,” he said, “Whatever was done to your car, I _promise_ you, that had nothing to do with me. When you didn’t rendezvous with me at our agreed upon time, I drove to the last place that your cell phone had sent out a signal. Your hotel room.”

“You can track a phone that way?” asked Freya, eyebrows raised.

“You can if you’re me. I was worried the worst had happened--that they had gotten to you and… _eliminated_ you from the equation. I couldn’t risk them coming back to your room and making off with this kind of evidence, so I sort of… broke in and took it. And I apologize for that. But it seemed necessary.”

Cullen sat back down, still clenching his jaw, his hands balled into angry fists.

“Okay,” he said in a carefully measured tone. “So you stole the flash drive. Have you been able to manage anything with it? We attempted to contact another hacker, but he… well, we haven’t heard back from him.”

“I was able to break the encryption,” Fenris said, nodding. “It took weeks, but I was finally able to access the files. Unfortunately, there’s another hurdle to overcome. That’s why I reached out to you. I’m at the end of my rope, and I thought maybe you’d have some idea where to go from here, being the only other person who knows what this disk may contain.”

He inserted the flash drive into the laptop and began clicking away at the keys. After a brief moment, he turned the laptop around so that Cullen could read the file he’d pulled up.   
  
“It’s not in the common tongue,” Cullen said, brows furrowed in confusion. “What language is that?”

Freya peered over his shoulder. She thought she might recognize a word or two out of the entire page, but she couldn’t have translated any of it.

“It’s written in  _Ancient Tevene_ , of all things,” Fenris told him, flipping the laptop back around. Freya let out a low whistle.

“But Ancient Tevene has been a dead language for centuries,” Cullen said, a frown painted on his lips. “There must be maybe five people in all of Thedas who could even read this file.”

“Two _,_ ” corrected Fenris, crossing his arms. “A senile old scholar named Ferdinand Genitivi who lives in a nursing home in Denerim and hasn’t been coherent in over a decade, and a Professor Halward Pavus of Tevinter College in Minrathous.”

“Hold on, did you say Halward _Pavus_?” asked Cullen. “Would he happen to be--”

“Related to Dorian?” Freya replied, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes. Halward is his father. He’s a historian and an expert on the ancient Tevinter Imperium.”

“Well,” said Cullen, brightening. “That makes things easy.”

Freya made a small noise in her throat, squirming a bit.

“Or perhaps not so easy?” asked Fenris, quirking an eyebrow.

“Dorian is my friend,” she explained. “And he and his father are… not on good terms.”

“As in…?”

“As in, haven’t spoken in about _nine years_.”

Cullen made a quiet “Hmpf” sound and sat back, crossing his arms.

“We’ll have to talk to him about it, get him to make up with his dad,” he said. “Unless you have another expert in Ancient Tevene in your back pocket?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, glancing over at Fenris. This was not a conversation she wanted to have in present company.

“Well,” said Fenris, standing. “Whatever you decide to do, you need to be more careful about how you go about things. Give me your phones.”

“What for?” asked Cullen, looking suspicious.

“You need to get rid of them. If I could track you as easily as I did, so can they. And the more you uncover, the more danger you’re in.”   
  
“We have to be able to communicate,” said Freya with a frown.   
  
Fenris took a pair of plain-looking flip phones out of his pocket.   
  
“Burners,” he explained, handing them over. “Use them until they’re out of minutes, then ditch them and buy new ones.”   
  
“What are you going to do with the ones we have?” Cullen asked, reluctantly reaching into his pocket.   
  
“Probably smash them with a hammer,” said Fenris, his tone deadpan.

Freya looked scandalized.

“Listen,” Fenris said with a shrug, “if your life isn’t worth more than a few hundred bucks, feel free to keep them. I’m just trying to help.”   
  
The pair handed their phones over, Freya sighing resignedly.   
  
“My number is already programmed in. Once you change phones, text me the new numbers. I’ll do the same whenever I switch. But don’t go using real names in any of your messages. Code names only.”

“Do we at least get to pick our code names?” asked Cullen.

“No, you don’t, Rambo.”

“Rambo? _Really?”_ Cullen rolled his eyes as Freya gave a snort. Fenris handed her the new phones.

“You can be Rabbit.”

Freya outright laughed at this, but Cullen bristled.

“That’s just rude,” he said, crossing his arms.

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “It’s different when elves use it for one another. I think it’s funny.”

Cullen shook his head, accepting the phone from Freya and tucking it into his pocket.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s go, I want to talk to Dorian about getting this translated.”

“Let me know what you find out,” said Fenris. “And try to make it fast.”


End file.
